by Rosie Lewis
‘Yes, thank you,’ Chit said crisply, dipping his head respectfully then gesturing towards the door that led to the fields. Zadie tugged at her robe and looked at me, swirling the dark material around her fingers. I got the impression she was seeking some sort of approval so I smiled reassuringly. I had thought that Zadie might be relieved to see a familiar face, but with her hunched shoulders and trembling hands she seemed more cowed than anything else.
Turning away from me, Chit held out his hand towards Zadie’s back, guiding her out with a proprietorial air, though I noticed he was careful not to make contact with her. I followed them, watching with a disquieted interest.
Outside, fields of lavender stretched for miles, broken only by the odd farmhouse, the purple-blue blanket following the contours of hills and rolling out of sight far into the distance. The wild, luminous beauty of the view and the sweet, soft fragrance were breathtaking, discordant with the tension between the three of us. On almost any other occasion I would have delighted in the comfortingly natural surroundings; it was a pleasantly mild day and the sun was doing its best to break through the stubborn hazy cloud, but the warmth on my face did nothing to quell my discomfort as I watched Zadie and her brother weave their way through the waist-high rows of woody shrubs.
Supervising contact is rarely a pleasant experience. Relatives usually detest being watched and it can be uncomfortable coping with the vibes of resentment and occasional open hostility. But as I trailed a few metres behind Zadie and her brother, navigating through the narrow furrows between rows of foliage, I realised that I felt more conspicuous than ever before.
There was symmetry in the siblings’ stride, their arms hanging stiffly at their sides, though Chit, at almost 18, was much taller than Zadie. They were moving so slowly that I had to keep at a snail’s pace so as not to get too close to them. Chit seemed to be doing most of the talking, his head bobbing animatedly as he twisted to look at Zadie. He put me in mind of a parent, checking to make sure that their child was paying attention. Every now and then he stopped, gesticulating with his arms as he spoke as if to underline his words. Zadie turned her head towards him once or twice, but mainly she stared at her feet. When they reached the end of the first row they turned right and kept on going, skipping several lines of plants before returning the way they came, probably trying to keep their distance from me.
Straggly stems from the plants’ woody centres cascaded over the path, their softly jagged flowers brushing against my legs and almost tripping me up. Deciding it would be daft to stalk them for the entire hour, I searched for somewhere to rest and found a bench nearby, abandoned against the wall of a derelict barn. Making myself as comfortable as I could on a seat with several slats missing, I pulled a book from my handbag and started reading. Every now and again I glanced over the top of the page to check on the pair, who remained within eyesight. Snatches of their conversation floated to me on the scented breeze but I couldn’t pick out individual words and wasn’t even sure whether they were talking in English, although Chit’s authoritarian tone was unmistakable. I had been reading for quite a while when I noticed that they had stopped halfway down one of the rows, roughly 30 feet away from me. Chit was leaning over Zadie with his hands resting on his hips, again giving the impression that he was an angry parent, dressing down a rebellious child.
Foster carers often have to make a judgement call on the spur of the moment, if relatives seem to be overstepping the mark. I usually try to keep an equal measure of trust and wariness and wanted to give Zadie and her brother space to make the most of the short time they had together, but an unnerving feeling in my stomach was bugging me to intervene. Just as I was reaching for my handbag they set off again at a gentle pace and I thought maybe it had been just an animated conversation after all. I checked my watch, telling myself I was being silly – all I had heard were the rising tones of a probably innocuous conversation that I knew nothing about.
But anyway, it was almost three o’clock. Contact had been scheduled for one hour so their time was almost up. Relieved, I made my way over to the pair. Closing the gap between us to a few feet, I called out to them. ‘Zadie, Chit. I’m afraid it’s time to head back.’
Chit turned sharply, fixing a serene half-smile on his face, but there was something frozen in his eyes, as if he was flicking back in his head, trying to figure out what he had been saying and whether he might have been overheard. Zadie said a sombre ‘OK’, and they turned in unison, heading towards the gift shop and way out.
‘Well, it was nice to meet you, Chit,’ I said when we reached the car park.
He smiled and made a noise in his throat that I, giving him the benefit of the doubt, took to mean ‘likewise’.
‘OK, well, we’ll see you soon I expect,’ I said cheerily.
‘I doubt it. Zadie will be home soon.’ He bobbed his head in the same habitual way as his sister, although with Zadie it was usually accompanied by an endearingly shy smile. Chit wasn’t in the least bit rude but there was an element of arrogance to his manner and a barb in his tone.
Chit waited in the car park, watching as we pulled away. Zadie sat in the back of the car, silent and withdrawn. I thought about what her brother had said about her returning home. There was no sign that going back to her family was something she wanted. Strolling beside him, she had seemed fragile and lost. But unless she could find the courage to tell me why, she might soon have no choice but to leave her foster placement. I worried about it all the way home; her unsettled sadness, her reluctance to trust. How could possibly it work itself out? I wondered, and just where was it all going to end?
Looking back, there were already clues to what the future held. If only I had been more alert. Instead of fretting over the small things, like rejected handshakes and clipped tones, I should have been looking for something far more sinister.
That night the sound of howling reached my ears before I was fully awake. Thrashing around in the dark for my dressing gown, I had awful visions of one of the children injured. Running full pelt along the hall, I followed the wolf-like noise to Zadie’s bedroom and hesitated for just a second on the landing to reassure Emily and Jamie, who wondered what on earth was going on. I took a breath before throwing the door open and flicking on the light.
Zadie was sitting up in bed, her eyes open but cloudy and far away. I knelt beside her bed, my legs still shaking from the shock of hearing her screams. I stroked the hair back from her face and put a palm to her forehead, flipping it over to feel with the back of my hand. I made soothing noises to try and calm her; she was sweaty and dazed. I assumed she was having some sort of lucid dream so I tried not to wake her, fearing she might become even more disorientated. But she must have sensed my presence because she stopped screaming, though there was still a rigid cast to her shoulders. She looked stiff with fright.
After a few minutes her breathing began to settle and she sank back onto the pillow. Rolling onto her side, her lips began moving as if she was trying to speak. It seemed as if she was repeating the same thing over and over again but I couldn’t distinguish her words. Gradually her lips stilled and her eyelids stopped fluttering. I was about to turn off the light when she began thrashing her legs and, moaning softly, she rolled over to her other side. Her duvet slipped off her shoulders and half-dangled on the floor. I reached down to pick it up.
And that’s when I noticed the blood. I froze, my eyes flicking from her stomach to her face. Red streaks followed the line of buttons on her pale-blue pyjamas, running from her chest to her navel. My breathing faltered as memories of nine-year-old Phoebe surged into my mind. Tortured by an abusive past and terrified to tell anyone about it, the nine-year-old had cut herself in the same bed that Zadie now slept in. My stomach twisted uncomfortably as I scanned her from top to toe, trying to find the source of the injury.
There were no obvious cut to her wrists or neck, I registered with relief. The bloodstains were light, as if from scratches rather than deep cuts. She was such a
private person that it seemed disrespectful to check her while she was asleep so, reassuring myself that she wasn’t going to bleed to death, I draped the duvet back over her side and tucked it around her chin. She twitched, her breathing still unsteady. Tiptoeing around the room, I checked her drawers and bag for sharp objects.
Satisfied there was nothing that could cause serious damage, I straightened and switched off the light. Standing at the door, I listened to her uneven, troubled breathing for a few moments, filled with a longing to understand her secrets.
Five minutes later I lay in bed, awake, restless and still trembling. The only reason I hadn’t gone into nursing when I had left school was because I didn’t have the stomach to cope with the sight of blood. Mucky nappies and upset tummies were a breeze, but the sight of blood had the power to make my bones go soft so that it was an effort to hold myself upright. Tugging the duvet around my ears, I rolled one way and then the other, poked my feet out then trawled one of them back in. Not warm but unable to bear the weight of the bedclothes on my restless limbs, I went downstairs for a glass of water. Still edgy and unsettled, I tried a glass of milk then prowled the bedroom a couple of times in a pair of fluffy socks. Wrapping my dressing gown around myself, I stood at the window and stared at the night sky flecked with stars, stirring memories of the hours I had spent pacing the same piece of carpet with Sarah in my arms, a baby who had been born addicted to heroin.
Since Sarah had moved on to adoptive parents I had tried not to let my mind stray to nostalgic thoughts of her. Having nursed her for the first six weeks of her life, I felt a strange sense of incompletion whenever I remembered her soft vulnerability, as if I’d started some vital research and had recklessly abandoned the task at some critical point.
My nerves jangling, I went downstairs and switched the computer on. I remembered reading, during my hurried research about Islam, that some Muslims practise self-flagellation. Clutching at straws, I entered ‘self-harm’ and ‘Islam’ into Google. I found myself holding my breath as the screen flickered, half-knowing that I was searching for other explanations because I was reluctant to believe that Zadie was hurting enough to want to harm herself. But deep down I think I was also afraid to acknowledge that I was missing something vital and, more painfully, that Zadie didn’t trust me enough to tell me what it was.
As is often the case, there was to be a huge range of conflicting information online. It seemed that some Shi’a Muslims beat their bodies with knives and chains to show their devotion to their religion, but then I knew that some Christians inflicted pain on themselves in atonement of their sins.
It seemed that every culture, whether Muslim or not, had its own guidelines on the subject of self-harm and its own set of traditions. I switched the computer off and strummed the desk with my fingertips. There was only one way of knowing what drove Zadie to injure herself and that was to ask her. I climbed the stairs, dizzy with tiredness but still plagued with the same restless feeling, as if the blood in my veins had been drained, replaced by an army of adrenalin-crazed ants.
Chapter 7
Friday was a teacher-training – or inset – day so there was no need to set my alarm but I woke early to the sound of Zadie washing for morning prayers. It was just before 5 a.m. and it felt like I’d only slept for half an hour. My eyes ached from socket to brow but, plagued by that horrible sweeping sensation I get in my stomach when I’m nervous, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep.
I went downstairs, splashed water on my face and made some coffee instead, still feeling a little ragged. I knew that if I sat down my stomach would take over where my feet left off, so, sipping at the piping hot drink, I pottered around the kitchen, putting cups away with my free hand.
I wondered whether I was feeling frayed because of the shock of being woken by the sound of Zadie’s screams. But it wasn’t just that; after years of fostering I was used to unsettled nights. It was the thought of those pebbles in Zadie’s pyjamas that kept niggling at me, more than I thought they should. Something about them was wrong, though I hadn’t the faintest idea what. And then there was my wretched dream. Every time I closed my eyes I pictured Zadie in the woods, trying to outrun the shadowy, menacing figure that was chasing her and taunting me.
However much I tried to push it from my thoughts, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was supposed to do something about it.
My anxiety about Emily’s low mood still hovered as well. There had been no change in her and I wondered again whether the introduction of another teenager in the house might have something to do with it.
By 9 a.m. there was still no sign of her or Jamie but Zadie was up, nibbling at some muesli. Sitting opposite her at the table, I thought I saw her wince in pain once or twice but she disguised it so well that moments later I wondered whether I had imagined it. Finishing the last of my toast, I took a sip of coffee and then cleared my throat. ‘Your hands look very sore, sweetie. Have you been using that cream I gave you?’
Immediately shamed, she dropped her spoon and buried her hands beneath the table. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, reddening.
‘No need to apologise. It’s just that they must be painful and we don’t want them to get infected.’ I paused and then said gently, ‘I think perhaps you’re washing your hands too much.’
She looked up at me and swallowed. There was a look of mortification on her face, as if I’d just accused her of stealing. I felt a moment’s encouragement – she was becoming less able to hide her emotions from me, which was a sign of progress.
‘It can become a bit of a habit,’ I continued, trying to keep my tone light and gentle. ‘Some people, when they’re feeling anxious, get stuck in a cycle of doing repetitive things like rearranging tins in a cupboard or walking around the block several times before allowing themselves to go home. But I know a little trick that can help whenever you feel that way. Would you like me to show you?’
Her cheeks were still red but there was a flicker of interest in her eyes, a slight hopefulness.
I trotted off to the kitchen, grabbed something from one of the drawers and then sat back down beside her. ‘These are for you,’ I said, handing her a pot of elastic bands.
Her brow furrowed as she took it but there was a smile of intrigue playing on her lips.
‘Right, so, what you do is put a few on your wrist.’
‘Like this,’ she asked shyly, pulling several coloured bands over her sore hands.
‘That’s right. Now, whenever you’re tempted to wash your hands when they’re already clean, pull one of the bands out and ping it against your skin.’
She cocked her head, frowning, as if she wasn’t sure I was serious, though she was smiling as well.
‘It works like a charm, honestly. I use it when I have to talk in front of a group of people. Public speaking terrifies me but whenever I get scared I ping myself and it relaxes me.
She laughed out loud then. ‘Really?’
I smiled. ‘Absolutely. Try it.’
‘OK,’ she said quietly and picked up her spoon again.
After a few moments I spoke again. ‘You called out in your sleep last night, honey. Do you remember?’
Zadie shot me a look of surprise. ‘Did I?’ She rested her spoon gently on the rim of her bowl and ran her teeth over her lips, watching me cautiously. ‘What did I say?’
‘I couldn’t make it out but you were pretty upset.’
Her shoulders sagged as if she was relieved. She picked her spoon back up, though she didn’t lift it to her mouth.
‘Do you often have nightmares?’
‘No,’ she said a little too quickly, and then, ‘I don’t think so.’
I paused, watching her. She didn’t look up but held herself very still. ‘You know you can talk to me if there’s something worrying you, don’t you?’
She made a noise of assent in her throat, still staring at her unfinished muesli.
‘Only, you seemed to have hurt yourself as well.’ I stopped for a
moment, letting the words sink in. Her eyes were downcast but they darted from side to side, as if searching for a means of escape. Quivering, she let go of her spoon and it clattered against the bowl, making her jump. Her hands fell to her lap. After a moment I continued, ‘There was blood on your pyjamas.’
Her hands flew to cover her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice trembling.
‘No, sweetie. There’s absolutely no need to apologise. That’s not what this is about.’ I leaned over the table and, crossing the invisible boundary between us, I gently prised her hands from her face and held them in my own. I could feel her trembling. ‘If you’re hurting, Zadie, I want to help you.’
Her face crumpled in anguish and her eyes filled with tears. She held my gaze for a few beats, the longest she had ever managed. The skin around her mouth puckered as if she was trying to form a reply, but no sound came out. It wasn’t the first time a child had struggled to confide in me. I think that giving life to words can somehow make fears or memories seem too real.
‘I … I …’ she faltered, staring at me intensely, but then a shadow crossed her face and she gently pulled her hands away, as if she suddenly thought better of what she was about to do. ‘Please may I go …?’ She pointed straight to the ceiling, gesturing to her room.
I forced a smile. ‘Of course you can.’
