by Cathy Glass
A very smiley assistant greeted us at the entrance of the store and offered us a basket, which Faye took. Gentle, soothing lullaby music played in the background all around the store, and immediately on our right was the newborn section, with rows and rows of the cutest first-size baby clothes. Faye went straight to them and I followed, feeling that this was a good first step. Although we were here to buy her maternity clothes, if she wanted to buy a first-size outfit for the baby then she could; it would be an acknowledgement that she was pregnant and going to have a baby. Faye picked out the sweetest little pink-and-white dress I’ve ever seen. ‘This would fit Suzie,’ she said, holding it up.
‘Is that what you’re going to call your baby?’ I asked, surprised, and feeling we had taken a big leap forward.
‘Suzie is my doll at home,’ she said, ignoring my reference to the baby.
‘These are first-size baby clothes,’ I said. ‘For newborn babies, not for dolls.’
‘It will fit Suzie,’ she said.
‘It probably will, but we’re not here to dress your doll, love. We need to buy you some maternity clothes.’
She was clearly disappointed, which I felt bad about, but she returned the dress to the rail and came with me to the maternity wear section, and we looked around.
‘This is a lovely dress,’ I said, selecting one. ‘I think it would suit you. Would you like to try it on in your size?’
Her face lit up. ‘Oh, yes, please.’ The doll’s clothes were forgotten.
‘Excellent. Try on a few different ones.’ I helped her select dresses in her size and we put them into the basket for her to try on later. I continued flicking through the rails with Faye close beside me and I showed her some leggings and tops. ‘These are good for everyday use,’ I said. She nodded enthusiastically. ‘Which tops do you like?’ She chose a few and put them in the basket. I added black maternity leggings to go with the tops.
‘Do you need any help?’ another cheery assistant asked.
‘I think we’re OK, thank you,’ I said.
‘When’s the baby due?’ she asked, looking at Faye. I guessed it was part of their sales patter.
Faye smiled but didn’t reply.
‘December,’ I said.
‘A Christmas baby, how lovely,’ the assistant enthused. ‘Please ask me or any of the assistants if you need help or would like to be measured for a maternity bra.’ She glanced at Faye.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
Once she’d gone I asked Faye if she would like to be measured for a bra and I explained what was involved. She pulled a face and said no, so I said I’d guess her size and she could try on some bras in the cubicle, for her present ones must be tight by now. Together we continued round the store and selected some pretty lace-trimmed bras, maternity trousers, a pair of pyjamas, a nightdress, pants and camisole tops, which I explained were like vests. With the basket full we went into the changing rooms, where I hung all the garments on the hooks in a cubicle and then waited just outside while Faye tried them on, ready to help if necessary. Undressing and dressing was a slow process for Faye, but it was important she did it herself. She came out and showed me each outfit once it was on, smiling and twirling in front of the mirror. She was in her element, bless her, but had no idea what fitted or suited her, so I helped her choose. The bras were too small, so I asked one of the assistants to bring in bigger sizes, and eventually Faye had tried on everything. She wanted to wear one of the dresses straight away, so, leaving her in the cubicle, I took the dress to the till, paid for it, and returned it to her. She was delighted.
‘I look pretty, don’t I?’ she said, gazing at her image in the mirror.
‘You do, love. Very pretty.’ The dress was made from a light grey and pink check material, with long sleeves, and was loosely gathered under the bust to accommodate her growing bump, although I didn’t say that to Faye. I just admired it and then, collecting together all the other items we wanted, we went to the till to pay for the rest.
Faye had put on her old duffel coat over the dress. It didn’t do up, and I realized we needed to buy her a better-fitting coat or jacket. After trying on a few we chose a three-quarter-length beige quilted jacket, which she would also be able to wear after the birth. I’d spent far more than the clothing allowance I’d receive for fostering Faye – rarely did it cover equipping a child from scratch – but it was completely worth it. Not only was Faye delighted with all her new clothes, I felt proud that she looked smart, as I thought her grandparents would be. Yet Faye had successfully chosen a whole new wardrobe of maternity clothes without so much as acknowledging she was pregnant!
By the time we left the store it was nearly 1.00 p.m. I was hungry and Faye said she was too. I suggested that rather than go straight home we could take the bags to the car and then have lunch in the mall. She loved the idea and wanted to wear her new jacket instead of her old duffel coat, so she changed into it by the car. Faye was like a child in a new dress going to a party as we headed back to the elevator. Her excitement bubbled over and she kept hugging me and thanking me. She didn’t look obviously disabled as a person with Down’s syndrome or cerebral palsy might, but strangers tended to notice something in her manner and behaviour and so they’d glance at her, smile politely and look away. Which is what the couple in the elevator did as Faye hugged me again and said how much she liked her new clothes and didn’t she look pretty.
Many of the restaurants, cafés and bars on the ground floor of the mall were open-plan and as we approached this area we were greeted with an array of delicious aromas from the different cuisines on offer: Chinese, Thai, Malaysian, Mexican, Indian, as well as traditional British food. I asked Faye what she liked but she didn’t know. I explained a little about the different foods and Faye stopped at a Malaysian buffet where a large screen on the wall above the counter showed enticing pictures of their range of dishes. She’d never eaten Malaysian food before but wanted to try it, so, aware of her rather conservative tastes in food, I suggested a selection of dishes that weren’t too hot and didn’t include shellfish, which I knew pregnant women were advised to avoid. I carefully carried the tray with the dishes to one of the bench-style tables and we sat on either side. The food tasted as delicious as it looked in the pictures and Faye enjoyed it. As we ate we talked and I reminded Faye that she was going to see her grandparents the following day. I also asked her if she wanted to go to the day centre on Wednesday; if so, I’d go with her on the bus, but she said she didn’t want to.
‘I want to go to the stables,’ she said.
‘I know, love, but do you remember your grandpa and Becky explaining that you couldn’t go while you’re expecting? Grandpa said you could go again in ninety-eight sleeps. That was when I visited you at your flat. It will be fewer now.’
‘How many now?’ she asked.
I did a quick calculation. ‘Eighty-eight,’ I said.
Satisfied, she returned to her food.
A couple with a toddler and a very small baby in a pram were sitting at the table next to us. The little boy was happily trying all the different foods, liking some but not others. When the baby woke the mother picked her up and gave her a bottle. I glanced at Faye to see if there was any reaction, but there wasn’t. She just continued eating. I’d noticed in the store earlier, where many of the women had been expecting or had a baby with them, that Faye hadn’t given them a second glance, outwardly uninterested, which seemed to confirm that perhaps she didn’t fully understand she was pregnant, for I would have expected her to at least look at them, if not comment.
Faye ate well, very well. There wasn’t a morsel left on her plate. But as we stood to leave I wondered if she’d overeaten, because she gave a small gasp and, bending forward, momentarily touched her stomach.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked, concerned.
‘No. My tummy feels funny.’
‘Do you want to sit down for a while? Perhaps it’s indigestion.’
‘No, it’s gone now,’
she said, straightening. ‘That food is moving.’
I looked at her carefully. ‘It wasn’t the food, love. It was the baby.’
‘No. It was the food,’ she said, ignoring my reference to the baby. ‘It has happened before.’
It would, I thought. Many women start to feel their babies move from sixteen weeks, and Faye was twenty-five weeks. ‘It will happen again,’ I said, and left it at that. I’d explain more once Becky had spoken to her on Friday.
We arrived home just after three o’clock. Paula was already home, having enrolled at college, and she told me about it. The rest of the week for her would be given over to introductory days – fresher’s week – then the lectures and work began in earnest the following week. She showed me some literature from college and a reading list. She was looking forward to the course and also being at college rather than school. Adrian arrived home just after four o’clock and met Faye for the first time. While he said an easy, ‘Hi, Faye, how are you?’ she went shy, threw him a small smile and went to fetch Snuggles, which I noticed she did if she felt insecure.
We all had dinner together, with Snuggles tucked beside Faye on her chair. Adrian, Lucy and Paula did most of the talking, while Faye and I listened. Once we’d finished and cleared the table, Faye wanted to watch television, so I showed her how to work the remote and she settled down for another evening of viewing soaps. Lucy and Paula joined her for a while and then went up to their rooms. Adrian had never been a great television watcher, and certainly not of soaps, preferring his laptop or a book, although he did listen to The Archers on the radio sometimes, which the girls were quick to point out was a type of soap. I telephoned Mum as usual. She’d been out with a neighbour to a garden centre for lunch. I was pleased. ‘Your dad and I used to go there sometimes,’ she said. ‘They do a very reasonable two-course lunch at a good price.’
Stan, Faye’s grandpa, telephoned and I answered it in the hall. He said he just wanted to check that I’d be bringing Faye on the bus the following day and I confirmed I would be. He said he’d tried to phone Faye’s mobile but she hadn’t answered. I said she rarely had it with her and often left it in her bedroom.
‘That’s OK,’ he said. ‘The phone is really for when she is out alone. What’s she doing now? Watching those soaps?’
‘Yes, how did you guess?’ I laughed. ‘Shall I fetch her for you?’
‘No, leave her. Just tell her I phoned and we miss her, and we’ll see her tomorrow.’
‘I will.’
I told Faye straight away, but she was so absorbed in the television she just nodded a response.
At nine o’clock when the soaps had finished Faye switched off the television and went into the kitchen for a glass of water to take to bed, as was her usual routine.
‘Would you like a bath before you go to bed tonight?’ I asked.
‘No, I had one last night,’ she said.
‘That was the night before,’ I said. ‘Before you came here.’ With a child I would just run the bath each night and insist they had one – nicely so, of course – but it was different with Faye. She was an adult and had her own routine. ‘Tomorrow night then.’
‘When it’s my bath night at home,’ Faye said, ‘Gran makes me have it before I watch television, otherwise she says I’m too late going to bed.’
‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘We’ll do that here then.’
The first week when a new foster child or young person arrives is really taken up with us all getting to know each other. It’s a period of adjustment, not only for the young person, who suddenly finds themselves living in a strange house with people they don’t know, but also for my family as we adapt to accommodate their wishes and routines. By the end of the week we are usually all jogging along side by side, and even after one day and night together Faye and my family were more relaxed. She called out goodnight as she went up to bed and they sang out, ‘Goodnight and see you in the morning.’ I waited on the landing until she’d finished in the bathroom. I wouldn’t necessarily do this every evening, unless she wanted me to, but it was important while she settled in. She came out of the bathroom looking very smart in her new pyjamas. ‘Snuggles likes my pyjamas so much he wants a pair,’ she laughed and hugged me. I laughed too. She was such a poppet.
I showed her where the laundry basket was for her washing and then I went with her to her bedroom. I now knew that she liked her curtains closed, the light off and the door shut at night. She placed her glass of water on the bedside cabinet and climbed into bed. I said goodnight and then gave Snuggles and her a kiss, as I had the night before.
‘After tonight, how many sleeps before I can see the horses?’ she asked, her little face peeping out over the duvet.
‘Eighty-seven,’ I said.
‘That’s a long time.’ She frowned. ‘I wish it was sooner. So does Snuggles.’
I smiled understandingly, stroked a strand of hair away from her cheek, then I had a thought. ‘Faye, you can’t visit the stables and work with the horses for now, but I could take you to see some horses in a field. Would you like that?’
‘Oh, yes please,’ she said, her eyes widening with excitement. ‘When? Tomorrow?’
‘You’re seeing your grandparents tomorrow. If you definitely aren’t going to the day centre on Wednesday, we could go then.’
‘Yes! Thank you,’ she cried. ‘I’ll look forward to it. I’m so happy. So is Snuggles.’ Sitting up in bed, she spread her arms for another kiss and hug.
All foster carers in the UK are required to keep a daily record of the child or young person they are looking after, which includes appointments, the child’s health and wellbeing and any significant events. When the child or young person leaves the carer this record is placed on file at the social services. In the absence of anyone telling me differently, I was doing the same for Faye. Before I went to bed I wrote up my log notes, and today I included our shopping trip for maternity clothes, that Faye had decided not to go to the day centre on Wednesday, that her grandpa had phoned to confirm arrangements for tomorrow and that Faye was settling in well.
When I’d first been asked to look after Faye I’d had huge concerns that my family and I would find it too upsetting to support Faye through her pregnancy, that we would grow close to her and her unborn baby, and then have to watch as the baby was taken into care. However, the more time I spent with Faye and got to know her, the more I was realizing that she couldn’t possibly look after a baby. It took all her skills, time and concentration to look after herself. She was a lovely person, but she functioned like a young child. Her numeracy and literacy skills were such that she wouldn’t be able to read and understand instructions on a packet of baby formula, for example, or on how to use a sterilizer or how to take medication (for herself or the baby), or do any of the other many requirements that go into parenting. Faye had little concept of time and lived unhurriedly, largely in her own little world, away from the pressures, demands and commitments that being an adult entails. I had no doubt that if she was immersed in watching a soap on television and the baby began crying for food or needed its nappy changing, Faye would finish watching the television programme first. Not because she was unkind or wilfully neglectful, but simply because she wouldn’t comprehend the urgency of her baby’s needs and that small babies require feeding and changing regularly. Wilma and Stan weren’t in any position to help and support her. They were already finding it too much looking after her and, indeed, needed help themselves. While Faye could still gain much from new experiences, her intellect had probably reached a plateau, which just wasn’t sufficient for parenting, sad though this was. I was therefore gradually accepting that finding a loving adoptive family for Faye’s baby was the best outcome for all concerned, and hopefully after the birth Faye would be able to resume her old life with her grandparents.
That night I slept easier, although when I heard Faye get up to go to the toilet I went round the landing to check she was all right. She was, and went straight back to
bed. Did she know that the reason she was having to wee more often was because she was pregnant? I doubted it, and it was something else I’d explain to her after Becky had talked to her on Friday.
Chapter Six
Vulnerable
Trying to get Faye ready to leave the house on time the following morning was like trying to get a child to school on time after a great weekend. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see her grandparents – far from it, she was looking forward to it – but everything took her so long. She’d start doing one thing and then halfway through she’d wander off and start doing something else. The cat didn’t help. Sammy had taken a liking to Faye and kept brushing past her legs, wanting to be stroked, and if he wasn’t in the same room as her she’d go off to find him. She was still in her dressing gown at 9.45, and while it hadn’t mattered the day before when we’d been going shopping, today we had a bus to catch at 10.20 if we were to reach her grandparents for 11.00. Contact had been arranged for 11.00–3.00, and it was unfair to keep them waiting. My stress levels began to rise as I chivvied her along. Eventually I asked, ‘Faye, how do you leave on time when you’re at home and go to the day centre and the stables?’
‘Gran nags me,’ she said with her impish grin. ‘She goes on and on. She says I’m too slow to catch a cold. Sometimes I have to miss breakfast, if I’m very slow.’
I could sympathize with her gran, and while nagging Faye or allowing her to miss breakfast wasn’t really an option for me, I would have to try to work out a way to help her keep better time. Apart from going to see her grandparents three times a week, she had an antenatal appointment at 9.45 a.m. on Friday. At this rate we’d need to start getting ready the night before!
