A Long Way From Home

by Cathy Glass

  ‘Anna came into foster care.’

  Elaine looked at me with guilt in her eyes. ‘I know this sounds awful, but I was pleased when the first two foster carers couldn’t cope with Anna’s behaviour. It proved it wasn’t just me, but you seem to be doing all right, so I suppose it must be me.’

  ‘No. Absolutely not,’ I said firmly. ‘I’ve had many years’ experience looking after children with challenging behaviour, but I can tell you that Anna’s behaviour has stretched me to the limit.’

  ‘Really?’ Elaine asked, surprised. ‘But she’s improved so much since she’s been here.’

  It was my turn to look surprised. ‘Has she?’ I asked. ‘You can see that?’

  ‘Can’t you?’

  ‘Not really.’ And for the first time we both allowed ourselves a smile. ‘Well, that is reassuring,’ I said.

  But where to go from here? Elaine had told me so much and raised many issues that had combined to tear their family apart. She and Ian had been ill-equipped to look after a child like Anna, who’d had such a damaging start in life, and from the sound of it they’d had little or no professional help and support. Added to which, they’d lost their first child, Lana, and hadn’t had a chance to grieve for her before going straight into Anna’s adoption. Then there was the matter of how they’d set about managing Anna’s behaviour. They’d felt sorry for her – who wouldn’t? – so had spoilt her and given her everything she wanted to try to heal the wounds from her past, but in so doing had fuelled her challenging behaviour. I’d fostered children before who believed they were in charge (usually because they’d had to be at home with parents unable to function as a result of alcoholism or drug abuse). Part of changing that behaviour was to take away the responsibility and control they’d assumed, and place them in the role of a child again. That’s what I’d been doing with Anna, as well as putting in place boundaries for good behaviour, reinforcing and repeating them endlessly. Even so, Anna had so many issues that would need professional help.

  ‘Are you in touch with Ian?’ I asked tentatively after a moment.

  ‘I am now. I phone him after I’ve seen Anna here and tell him how she is. He’s struggling. He’s lost me, just as I have lost him.’

  ‘And you’ve both lost Anna,’ I pointed out.

  Her eyes filled. ‘I know, and I haven’t a clue what to do about it and neither has Ian.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ian

  Elaine left shortly after; she thanked me for listening and said she’d see me as usual on Saturday. I didn’t know if I’d been of any help. I hadn’t said much, but hopefully just listening so that Elaine could tell her story had unburdened her and helped.

  I collected Anna from school at two o’clock and the rest of the afternoon and evening passed as normal – or normal for us now, with me spending 90 per cent of my time making sure Anna did as she was supposed to and didn’t get up to mischief. While I could view some of Anna’s behaviour as ‘mischief’, there was other behaviour that was cruel and destructive. Trashing Elaine’s treasured keepsakes of her parents, for example, was malicious – there’s no other word for it – an act of mindless violence, unless you took into account Anna’s past. Then you could see the logic of a five-year-old damaged child. Anna had suffered as a result of not having loving parents, so why shouldn’t Elaine suffer too? If only Anna could be made to see that she was now loved and cared for, hopefully some of her anger and destructiveness would go.

  Of some reassurance was that Elaine had seen improvement in Anna’s behaviour, and I was very pleased that my relentless efforts not only to modify Anna’s behaviour, but to try to make her feel wanted and cherished were having some success.

  That evening, when I wrote up my log notes, I wrote only that Elaine had visited and talked about Anna’s adoption. There was no need for me to go into all the detail, although I might when I next spoke to Jill or Lori. The week rushed by and on Thursday afternoon Mrs Taylor made a point of seeing me in reception while I waited for Miss Rich to bring Anna to me at two o’clock. I usually arrived a few minutes early as I allowed extra time for traffic. Mrs Taylor asked me how my family and I were and then said, ‘I was wondering if Elaine had had a chance to speak to you in private?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, slightly surprised she knew. ‘She visited me on Monday.’

  ‘Good. I told her to have a chat with you. I thought it might help. I’ve also given her the telephone number of my sister, Flo – the one with adopted boys.’

  ‘OK. Good,’ I said.

  ‘How was Elaine when you saw her? I’m not asking you to break a confidence, but how was she in herself?’

  ‘Struggling to see a way forward,’ I replied honestly.

  ‘She’s in touch with her husband now, which gives me some hope.’

  ‘Yes, she is.’ Although I wasn’t sure this was a sign of hope that the family could be reunited, which I assumed was what Mrs Taylor meant. She thanked me for all I was doing for Anna and told me to ‘keep up the good work’, then went to rejoin her class. Mrs Taylor’s care and concern for her pupils’ welfare went far beyond her role as a teacher.

  I was expecting something different from Elaine on Saturday after she’d unburdened herself on Monday, thinking she might be more confident and positive in dealing with Anna, but to my disappointment she was exactly the same. Anna was her usual rude and demanding self and Elaine let her walk all over her, not once stopping or correcting her, even when she pinched her and shouted in her face. So it was left to me to tell Anna. Even Adrian and Paula were now standing up to her, for example by saying, ‘No, Anna, don’t snatch,’ when she took something they were playing with. But Elaine didn’t censure her once.

  When the hour was up (Elaine never stayed longer) I saw her to the front door while Anna remained in the living room. ‘You know, Elaine,’ I said, ‘our foster carer training teaches us that putting in place boundaries for good behaviour is a sign we care. That we want what’s best for the child. Anna won’t love you any less if you correct her sometimes.’

  ‘She doesn’t love me now,’ Elaine said bluntly. ‘She never has.’

  ‘Of course she does, but part of her condition is that she can’t show it. Therapy should help.’ Elaine shrugged and, saying goodbye, left, clearly unconvinced.

  I’d been trying to teach Anna kindness and affection, by stroking our cat gently, for example, rather than screaming in its face or trying to pull its ears and tail. I also hoped that by setting a good example – the way my family and I treated each other with respect and consideration – would help, but any advance I made was undone by Elaine allowing Anna to treat her so badly. Perhaps Elaine felt guilty and that she deserved to be treated this way, but it wasn’t healthy and was creating double standards, which would be confusing for Anna.

  On Sunday I invited my parents to dinner again and they, too, said they could see some improvement in Anna, although it seemed to me that I spent most of the day correcting her behaviour. I’d found before that when we had visitors she upped her negative behaviour, being demanding, attention seeking and in their faces, not doing what I’d asked and sometimes being overfamiliar with our guests. I knew that this overfamiliarity was part of Anna’s attachment disorder, and I dealt with it quickly and quietly, moving her away from the guest, putting myself between them or taking her off their lap.

  Jill visited on Tuesday for one of her supervisory meetings, during which time I told her some of what Elaine had said about Anna’s adoption. She said she’d pass it on to Lori. As my supervising social worker, Jill was in direct and regular contact with the child’s social worker.

  ‘I spoke to Lori yesterday,’ she said. ‘She’s been trying to contact Elaine but she’s not returning her calls. She’s left messages on her voicemail and answerphone. The social services won’t leave Anna here indefinitely.’ Which I knew. ‘When you see Elaine can you tell her it’s important she gets in contact with Lori?’

  ‘Yes, I will.’


  So on Saturday when Elaine visited I took her to one side, out of earshot of the children, while Anna was busy rummaging in the toy cupboard. ‘Elaine, my supervising social worker, Jill, was here this week and said Lori has been trying to contact you.’

  ‘I know, she keeps leaving messages.’

  ‘You need to call her back as soon as possible.’ I don’t think she understood the importance.

  ‘I don’t want to talk to her right now.’

  ‘Well, you have to. If you don’t then decisions could be made without you being involved. Lori won’t leave Anna here indefinitely; it’s not fair on her. She needs to know where she is going to live permanently.’ Elaine looked quite worried. ‘Also, therapy is unlikely to start until Anna is settled in her permanent home, wherever that is.’

  ‘I’ve had a letter from CAMHS,’ she said. ‘Anna has an appointment with the therapist next week.’

  ‘Oh, that’s come through quickly. Are you going to take her?’

  ‘I thought you would.’ I wondered when she was going to tell me.

  ‘OK, but I’ll need the details of where and when.’

  ‘I’ll phone you with them.’

  ‘And you need to let Lori know. Promise me you’ll phone her first thing on Monday.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Don’t put it off any longer,’ I emphasized. Elaine wouldn’t be the first parent who had failed to engage with their social worker and found their child the subject of a court order. At present Anna was in care voluntarily so her parents retained full parental rights, which was probably why the letter for the appointment had been sent to her rather than to me or the social services. If the social services were granted a Full Care Order by the court, Elaine and Ian would lose their parental rights and have to go to court to try to win them back. Although, of course, they’d only do that if they were fighting to keep Anna, and at present I wasn’t sure they would. I didn’t like the fact that Elaine had asked me to take Anna to the appointment. It was as though she’d completely given up.

  However, situations can and do change quickly in fostering. On Monday morning I let Jill know that Anna’s appointment at CAMHS had come through and that Elaine had asked me to take her, and I was waiting to hear what day and time it was. Jill said she’d let Lori know. An hour or so later Elaine telephoned, I assumed to give me the details of the appointment. ‘It’s on Wednesday,’ she said, ‘but you needn’t take her. Ian and I are going to.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, good,’ I said, surprised but pleased. That sounded positive. ‘Have you told Lori?’

  ‘Yes. The appointment is at three o’clock, so we are going to collect Anna from school at two and go straight there. We’ll bring her back to you after – I’m guessing around five o’clock. Lori asked if you could explain to Anna what is happening as she won’t see her before.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ In Elaine’s words I caught sight of a very different person, one who could organize and make requests, before her dreams had been shattered and she’d been beaten down by the relentless demands of a very challenging child. ‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Can I ask what made you change your mind about taking Anna to the appointment?’

  ‘A couple of things, really. After you said the social services wouldn’t leave Anna with you indefinitely and might apply for a court order, I phoned Ian and told him. He was worried too. I then returned Lori’s calls and she sort of confirmed what you’d said, and said that if we are working towards Anna returning home in the future then we need to be part of Anna’s therapy. I also phoned Mrs Taylor’s sister, Flo. She has two adopted sons. She was helpful.’

  ‘Good. Although you know therapy can take months before you see any improvement.’ I didn’t want her and Ian thinking it was a quick fix.

  ‘I know. We’ll see how it goes, but can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I sent Anna’s Life Story Book and Memory Box in her belongings. What did you do with them? I’ve never seen them at your house.’

  ‘I unpacked them and put them safely away.’

  ‘So they are not on view in Anna’s bedroom?’

  ‘No, but if she asks for them I can easily get them out. Is that OK? She hasn’t asked for them yet.’

  Elaine was silent for some moments. ‘Is that all right?’ I asked again.

  ‘Yes. Flo did similar with her lads. I should have, but I was so keen to follow the advice of the social worker about keeping the child’s roots alive that I think I have caused some of Anna’s problems. Flo said they’d been put under a lot of pressure to do the same and stay in touch with the boys’ natural parents, even though her lads didn’t want to. She and her husband refused. But I’ve been talking to Anna about her mother almost as if she was there. It was me who kept bringing up the subject of her past and suggested we kept looking at her Life Story Book and going through the Memory Box. Anna wasn’t interested, but I thought I was doing the right thing. I always referred to Anna’s birth mother as “her mummy” – little wonder she resented me and hasn’t bonded with us.’ I heard her voice break.

  ‘Elaine, you can’t blame yourself. Perhaps with hindsight you may have done things differently, but that’s the nature of having children. We can only do our best and learn from our mistakes. Anna has other issues arising from being abused and neglected in her early years, which have never been properly addressed. Therapy should help.’

  ‘I hope so. I was so pleased I talked to Flo. She spoke a lot of good sense. She invited us over to meet her family. She said her favourite saying, which she shared with her boys, is: “You can’t start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one.” That’s so true.’

  ‘Yes, indeed it is,’ I said. I remembered that quote and years later, when I fostered and then adopted Lucy (whose story I tell in Will You Love Me?), I used it with her. Those few words seemed to sum up so much for children and adults who are struggling to move on from a difficult past.

  I made a note in my diary of the arrangements for Wednesday, and when I collected Anna from school that afternoon I took the opportunity of the two of us being alone in the car to tell her that her mummy and daddy would be collecting her on Wednesday and the three of them would go to see a therapist at the hospital. I explained that a therapist was a type of doctor who would talk to them, ask questions and probably play some games. Most therapy involving children includes therapeutic games. Anna was uncharacteristically quiet as I spoke and didn’t keep interrupting or talking over me, or covering her ears so she couldn’t hear – which she still often did. I glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘Are you OK? Any questions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, if you do think of any, ask me and I’ll do my best to answer.’

  Anna continued to be subdued for the rest of the afternoon and evening, so much so that I asked her a few times if she was all right and she nodded. On a lighter note, I overheard Adrian remark casually to Paula in his old-fashioned way, ‘I think Anna may have turned a corner. We can only hope.’ I smiled at Adrian’s dry sense of humour.

  At bedtime, having clearly been thinking about things, Anna finally had a question and it stopped me in my tracks. ‘Are my mummy and daddy going to send me back?’

  ‘To the orphanage?’ I asked, horrified. She nodded. ‘No, of course not. They adopted you, you are their daughter and they are your parents,’ I said yet again. ‘There is no changing that, even if you are not living with them.’ Although I could see why she might think it.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Positive. Why?’

  ‘I used to tell them I wanted to go back and they always do as I say, but I don’t really.’ Which was a very good example of why children shouldn’t be given too much power. It’s a frightening place to be, as they don’t have the maturity to deal with it.

  ‘Well, luckily for you, adults don’t always do as you tell them,’ I said, ‘including me, Lori and your parents.’ Anna looked at me carefully
and then climbed into bed. I always tucked her in, even though she didn’t want a hug or kiss goodnight.

  ‘Do you think I’m wicked?’ she asked, resting her head on the pillow.

  ‘No. You are not wicked. You make the wrong choices sometimes. The therapist will help you learn how to make the right choices.’

  ‘The kids at school think I’m horrible.’

  ‘No, you’re not horrible, Anna, but to make friends you have to be kind to other children, share and ask if you can join in, then play nicely. I’m sure you can do it if you try.’

  ‘I don’t know how to,’ she said wistfully. ‘Will the therapist teach me to be nice?’ My heart went out to her. It was part of her attachment disorder that she didn’t know how to treat other children (or adults). This was the longest, most meaningful conversation we’d had since she’d arrived and I caught a glimpse of a very isolated, fragile and hurting child.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure the therapist will be able to help you,’ I said with a reassuring smile. ‘But in the meantime, you could think how you like to be treated and do the same to others. That would be a good start.’ I wanted to give her a hug, but when I took her hand in mine she pulled it away. ‘Is there anything else you want to ask then?’

  ‘Can I sleep in your bed?’ she asked, perhaps thinking our heart-to-heart had lessened my resolve.