Mummy's Little Helper

by Casey Watson

  I filled him in on what Chelsea had said, which to my mind made all the difference. ‘And if they’re already at that stage, I think we’re right to feel positive.’

  ‘Well, I’m still keeping everything crossed – and so should you. You know how these things can change at the last minute.’

  We both did – and well. In that case, though, the change had been the best we could hope for; our last foster child, Spencer, was headed right up to the last minute for the last place I wanted him to go: a residential unit, a place where they send out-of-control teenagers. And he’d been younger than Abby, even – just nine years old. Going home had been out of the question for poor Spencer. Or so we’d thought. Within a fortnight things had taken a dramatic turn, and he’d ended up living happily with his mum.

  He still was, and, God willing, would continue to do so. So was it too much to ask that things turn out well for Abby too? I hoped not, and, actually, though I understood Mike’s caution, I thought it would, at least in the sense that her aunt would now be there for her. Nothing I’d seen or heard made me anxious about that.

  But that was only half the picture. Not even half the picture really. Sarah still had MS – a particularly nasty type, too, and would presumably continue to deteriorate. And Abby herself, for all our temporary euphoria, still had a complex set of psychological issues, none of which – no matter how much we might pretend otherwise – could be instantly magicked away.

  Abby’s very excitement gave me cause for concern. It seemed all so black and white, and why wouldn’t it? She was a child – she didn’t deal in grey areas, in much the same way as she hadn’t a few days earlier. If Sarah came home, then, as night followed day, she’d get better. This was the thing Abby had hung on to since she’d been with us. And why wouldn’t she think that anyway – over the years her mum had been ill many times, and each time there would be a corresponding well period. So she could process what she’d seen in hospital by applying the same logic. She was ill, but soon she wouldn’t be. And then all would be well.

  It was this more than anything that concerned me: that, actually, Vicky didn’t quite know what she was taking on in Abby. Sarah herself didn’t seem to have the first clue, come to that – and that posed another problem: that, in the haste to reconcile the family, the severity of Abby’s condition might get sidelined, which might make her worse, which might throw everything else into disarray. And this could also – I’d done enough reading for me to know this might be true – make her OCD more entrenched, and possibly permanent. It was such an insidious and tenacious thing to have.

  I couldn’t sleep that night. Mad, given how tired I was – but it was like I was in overdrive now. This was a situation that would very soon be out of my hands, but if there was one thing I could do it was to focus on Abby, and do the best I could – assuming Vicky wanted my input about her niece – to give her as much helpful information as I could.

  Mike was snoring, too, which was pretty much the decider to get up. I struggled to get back to sleep at the best of times when Mike was snoring, and with my head so full of thoughts it would be impossible tonight. So, instead, I went downstairs, poured myself a glass of water and turned on the laptop, determined to do anything I could to make it easier for them.

  I spent a good couple of hours sitting bleary eyed at the kitchen table, making notes, jotting down web addresses, stacking up the printer queue with things to print out in the morning, as well as collating my notes, updating them and jotting down anything I thought might be useful. And while I was reading a web page, specifically aimed at children with OCD, I came across an article that seemed particularly useful – it was all about support groups for young carers. Clicking onto a link, I was thrilled to find that there were such groups sprinkled all over the country – and that they held regular meetings that young carers could attend, both to share their experiences and also to meet new friends just like them; friends who, unlike all the ‘childish’ ones Abby knew, understood and empathised with each other’s problems.

  It was an eye opener for me too – the numbers were really something. It seemed that thousands of these young kids spent most of their lives looking after a parent, which left them little time or inclination for socialising. After a little more research, I was even more excited to find that there was actually such a group only about a mile from where Sarah and Abby lived. I couldn’t quite believe that they had lived the way they had for so long, when a support network had been practically on their doorstep. If only Sarah had done things differently. It just all felt so sad.

  The following morning, if not exactly refreshed, I felt rested. And with a to-do list that Abby herself would have been proud of, I also felt ready both to gather the fruits of last night’s furious labour, and catch up generally with my mounting piles of paperwork. If this placement was to end soon – which was beginning to look likely – I needed to be sure all my notes were in order and that anything new I had of Abby’s, such as her forthcoming appointment with the psychologist, needed to be put into her file. All that done, I phoned both Bridget and John, to update them, and to confirm that we’d meet Sarah at the hospital around five – Vicky, en route now, would already be there. And of course to ask if either had heard anything else. But they had nothing new to report other than that Vicky had set off and she would be at the hospital with Sarah from about 1 p.m. that afternoon. According to Bridget, she was very much looking forward to meeting me later.

  But, of course, I’d forgotten about Kieron.

  ‘Hello, love,’ I said when he suddenly appeared in the kitchen, having bellowed out his usual hello. Though I was always pleased to see him, I hadn’t been expecting him, and as it was out of character for Kieron to do anything without planning it I was confused to see him now. I said so.

  ‘Am I losing the plot?’ I asked as I automatically reached for the kettle. ‘Or is there something I should have remembered about today?’

  Kieron pulled his hoodie off and carefully slipped it over a chair back, before pulling it out and sitting down on it himself. He glanced up at the clock. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I just thought I’d come early. I’ve had nothing on today at the youth club, and Lauren’s in college, so I thought I’d wander down, that was all.’ He eyed the open laptop. ‘You’re not busy, are you?’ He looked at me anxiously.

  ‘As if!’ I laughed. ‘Never too busy for my lovely boy, you know that!’ Which was not only the required response, but also true. Early, though? Early for what? I was confused now. There was clearly something he was early for. What had I forgotten?

  And then the penny dropped. Shit! I’d forgotten about the café shift. With everything else that had been going on I’d completely forgotten that I’d arranged – and with both Donna and Kieron, hence his arrival – that Abby would spend a couple of hours helping out down there tonight.

  ‘Oh, love,’ I said, grabbing mugs from the cupboard, ‘I’m such an idiot. We’ve got to go to the hospital when Abby gets home – to see Sarah. It’s only just come up, all this, and it’s all been such a big deal that I’d completely forgotten about you picking Abby up.’

  I explained what had happened in the last forty-eight hours, and how it looked like Abby’s Cinderella story was to have a happy ending, with Auntie Vicky playing the role of Fairy Godmother. And as I explained things I watched Kieron’s face begin to change. By the end he was looking positively gloomy.

  I sat down and brandished coffees and placed a hand over his arm. ‘Hey, why the long face?’ I asked, ‘as the barman said to the shire horse …’ This at least raised a hint of a smile in him.

  He shrugged. ‘It’s just sad,’ he said simply. ‘I’m going to miss her.’

  ‘Oh, love,’ I said. ‘But you knew she’d be leaving.’

  ‘I know, and I spoke to Riley and she did say about this auntie …’ He sat and pondered. Then shrugged again. ‘I just feel sad.’

  Looking at Kieron, you wouldn’t know. Well, you might, but you probably wouldn�
�t. You wouldn’t fully appreciate, not unless you knew him like I did, that for all that he looked so normal – so tall, blond and, yes, ridiculously handsome – he was actually different, in myriad ways, from most of us. Even I forgot that sometimes, like in the last few Abby-centred weeks. I’d been so touched by how positive an effect knowing him had had on her that I had neglected to consider what their friendship meant to him.

  As with lots of things about Asperger’s, it had slipped under the radar. Of course he’d be sad. He found it difficult to make friends, too – how could I forget that? And though he had a great group of close friends, and a wonderful, caring girlfriend, making a connection with another human being, however unlikely, in terms of age, and then losing it again – God, Casey, I thought, of course he’s bloody sad!

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘and I can see that, and I know how much you’re going to miss her. I’m sure she’ll miss you as well.’

  He sipped his drink. ‘It’s hard,’ he said having clearly thought. ‘All this fostering. It really was kind of like …’ he trailed off, and I could see he was trying to articulate something.

  ‘Kind of what?’ I coaxed.

  ‘Kind of like having my own little sister. We really got on, Mum. And, bloody hell, it was sooooo good –’ now he grinned at me – ‘having a sister not bossing me around, for a change!’

  I laughed. ‘Hey, don’t be too down. I have a suspicion about Abby. Now she’s got a big brother in her life and a part-time job at Truly Scrumptious, I suspect we’ll still be seeing plenty of her, don’t you?’

  And I wasn’t just saying that either. I believed it. It could be arranged – assuming all parties concerned wanted it to, at any rate. No, we didn’t know what would happen to the family long term, but, as of right now, Sarah didn’t live so very far away.

  ‘Anyway,’ I finished, ‘Abby’s going to be here soon. So perhaps before you leave for work you can let her know when your next shift is. I’m guessing she’ll be keen to do one. She’s not even had a chance to get her birthday chef’s kit out yet. And, love, remember what I always say –’

  ‘What? Not “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” Mum. You always say that.’

  ‘No,’ I tutted, ‘good proverb though that is. No, I was thinking more that “endings aren’t always necessarily endings”. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.’ I paused. ‘Though, obviously – here’s another for you – don’t smoke.’

  It didn’t make a blind bit of difference, obviously, but an hour and a half later, at the hospital, seeing the three of them together for the first time, and seeing how alike they all were, kind of did.

  Fairer than her younger sister, Vicky was even more like Abby than her own mother was, and I could tell straight away what a strong bond aunt and niece would have – from the aunt’s point of view it was already a given.

  And Vicky had an air of older-sister authority which, though it might have contributed to the break-up between her and Sarah, straight away convinced me would now serve them all well.

  ‘Abby!’ she greeted her niece, leaping up as we entered. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I am so glad to see you again!’ But she didn’t overdo it. She seemed to have a sixth sense that, for all Abby’s excitement, facing this virtual stranger in the flesh would be a very different matter. So, instead of overwhelming her with hugs and kisses, she let Abby take the lead. Which she did, formally extending her right hand towards her aunt’s. Vicky shook it with a warm smile but equal formality.

  ‘Very pleased to meet you too,’ Abby said shyly.

  Vicky turned to me then. ‘And you must be Casey,’ she said, extending her own hand to shake mine now while Abby went to hug her mother. ‘I owe you such a debt of thanks, I really do. And I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you had the guts to stand up to my sister.’

  ‘I think I’m going to second that,’ Sarah added. At which both of them laughed. And I did too. What did a flipping ‘record’ matter anyway? It was just words, stuffed away in a drawer, after all. This was a real-life happy ending, and I’d made it happen. Surely that was what mattered. Given a fair wind and a glass of wine with Mike later, I might even spare a few minutes to feel pretty damned proud of myself. It didn’t matter that it might have happened anyway, eventually; equally it might not have, so grabbing at least a slice of the credit felt only fair.

  Not that there weren’t still a few hurdles to jump over. Though it seemed everything was moving in the right direction, Vicky still had a life of her own to live. But she seemed to have already spent time thinking that through. Her house, she explained, was already on the market. ‘Downsizing. Coincidence or destiny?’ She laughed. ‘I’ll take either. Seriously, I was at a crossroads –’ She turned to Sarah. ‘I’ll tell you later. And, one way or another,’ she said, turning back to me now, ‘I was going to make a change. So this has kind of crystallised my thinking, which is actually a big weight off my mind. I can stop bloody procrastinating now!’

  Then I saw her glance at Abby, and didn’t really need to know any more. Her eyes shone with tears and her expression spoke volumes. There could be no better incentive for her, clearly.

  Chapter 26

  As often happens when you foster – my kind of fostering, at any rate – decisions get made, and it feels like it’s all go, and then there’s this period of inertia. Which is right. Because where a child or children’s lives are concerned, no decision should ever be made in haste. So, confident as everyone was that this new plan would be workable (for Vicky, initially, to accompany Sarah home from hospital, once the necessary support arrangements were put in place), it was important that all the boxes were ticked.

  Most of this was outside my remit. These were things that would be handled by the medical team, including Chelsea. She, along with Vicky, another physio, seemed to really know her way around the system, as did Andrew, Sarah’s social worker.

  Vicky would also, meanwhile, be assessed by social services, so that when the time came – and this all rested on Sarah settling home again without difficulty – she would already be formally approved as Abby’s carer. This wouldn’t be a full check, such as was done on all potential foster carers, like Mike and me, but something less formal – what was known as a friends and family assessment, and which was less intrusive and only took a couple of weeks – less, perhaps, given the circumstances and everyone’s will to push things on.

  The will was certainly there, and not least of all on my part. Abby duly attended her appointment with the child mental-health psychologist, and it was agreed that once Abby was settled more permanently somewhere she’d be referred to someone close by for a fuller assessment, at which point a plan of therapy would be agreed. In the meantime it was agreed that it would be useful for Vicky if she spent some time with me so I could discuss Abby’s needs in more depth.

  We arranged it for the following Thursday. Abby, who’d now seen her aunt three times at the hospital, couldn’t wait to see her again. ‘Oh, I need to do her another painting,’ she gushed as I filled her in on Wednesday night that Vicky would already be at ours when she got home from school the next day. I’d arranged for Vicky to come to us mid-afternoon, so we could talk through the rituals and compulsions and so on, and how best she could manage them herself. She’d have professional input, of course, and very soon I’d be bowing out, but forewarned was forearmed and we were of a like mind regarding that.

  ‘That would be nice,’ I said.

  ‘So I’ll start it now, while I’m in bed, and then I’ll get up extra early so I can finish it off before school. But I’ll need glitter. Will I be able to get out your box and use your glitter? It’ll need to be extra early, and I wouldn’t want to wake you and Mike up. I know you need lots of sleep once you’re older.’

  I laughed. ‘Tell you what, I’ll go down and get it out right now. That way it’ll be all ready for you in the morning.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m going to make it a special “going home” picture. Ooh, I’m so excited. Do you think
it will be long now?’

  I didn’t know, so I couldn’t tell her. ‘Not too long,’ I reassured her anyway. Inwardly, even as I said it, I felt strange. Strange, yet at the same time the feeling was familiar. Much as I wanted a child to leave me in such happy circumstances, and get finally settled somewhere permanent, there was always a part of me – a selfish part – that wished they’d be slightly less happy at the prospect of saying goodbye and moving on.

  We covered this in training, of course – children in care often had huge attachment issues, and, with a history of abuse or neglect, being able to move on was a key defence mechanism. If they allowed themselves to attach too easily, they were often storing up more heartache – being able to detach easily was not only a result of years of being unloved, it was also sometimes the only thing that kept them sane.

  This wasn’t the case with Abby. She was going home to be with her mother. Her aunt as well – why on earth wouldn’t she want it to happen sooner rather than later? But it didn’t make it any easier. It was just plain old hard, this job, I thought. You did all you could to reassure the kids that they would be going home – and, at the time, you really meant it. But then, when it came to it, no matter how professional you tried to be, a little bit of you wanted them to be upset about leaving you. Not at all what a foster carer should be thinking, of course, but most definitely what the mummy inside of you always felt.

  I leaned down and kissed the top of her head, then brushed the hair to one side to check her bald patch. Was it my imagination or did there seem to be a little new growth there? Wishful thinking, perhaps, but I didn’t care – I could see it. ‘Not too long,’ I said again. ‘Night, night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’

  Abby groaned, as she always did. And then she made me laugh out loud. ‘Casey, you know me. They wouldn’t dare to!’