Читать книгу Helpless: A True Short Story - Rosie Lewis - Страница 4

‘Course, I seen it all, love,’ Bob, my police escort, says as we drive through the cold November night towards the hospital. ‘Twisted car wrecks, stab victims, the lot, but I couldn’t do what you do, not for twice my police pension.’

Smiling, I re-check the contents of the hurriedly packed nappy bag on my lap, mentally running through the items I might need to get through the next twenty-four hours. Bob’s reaction isn’t surprising. Who wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the prospect of being permanently on duty? When I’m fostering, every second of my existence is dominated by the needs of the damaged child, but I don’t mind. Like many foster carers, I’m driven by a powerful need to ease their pain.

I remember myself as a child, walking by our local newsagents on the way to school. Outside the shop stood a little wooden figure of a beggar boy with polio, both legs fixed in metal callipers and a forlorn expression painted on his face. He held up a sign saying ‘Please give’ and there was a slot in the top of his head for pennies. Undeterred by the bird droppings across his shoulders, I would give him a quick hug, longing to take him home and make him better.

My pulse quickens as we pass over a deserted bridge lined with old-fashioned street-lamps. After seven years of fostering I still feel an intense excitement when taking on a new child. It’s only been a few days since my last placement ended and already I’m itching to fill the void.

As we drive past the riverside council blocks I’m reminded of one of my previous charges – three-year-old Connor, a boy who spent a large part of his day roaming the second floor of the grim building with his overfull nappy hanging at his knees while his mother familiarised herself with a string of violent, resentful partners. How fragile their lives are, I think, when nothing is certain and the events of one day can turn everything familiar upside down.

Soon we turn into a main road and the functional, rectangular building of the city hospital looms into view. Bob pulls the police car into the large parking area outside the maternity wing and I reach for the infant seat with trembling fingers, gripped by a sudden fear that I’m too out of practice to care for such a young baby.

Coming in from the knife-like wind, the warmth of the maternity unit engulfs me like a blanket. Another police officer stands guard outside the delivery suite and the sight causes my stomach to flip. What if the birth family find out where I live? Am I putting my own children at risk?

Bob seems to sense my apprehension, gently cupping my elbow and leading the way to reception. I show the midwife, a young but harassed-looking woman, my ID card. ‘I’ll call Sister for you,’ she says, checking her bleeper and hurrying off down the equipment-lined corridor.

My stomach churns as I pace the stark white corridors like an expectant father from another era, back in the days when convention kept men out of the delivery suite. A faint cry and the rhythmic thud of sensible shoes signals another breathless charge of adrenaline. Craning my neck, I catch a glimpse of Sister as she rounds the corner, a small, ruffled blanket in her arms. The weak cry gradually increases in volume until it sounds like an ailing but furious kitten. I suddenly feel light-headed and realise that I’m holding my breath.

‘Hello, dear,’ the middle-aged woman says, raising her voice to compete with the mewing. She lifts her glasses and squints at the ID badge hanging around my neck. ‘I’m told you’re a specialist carer?’

I nod, biting my lower lip. When I took the call at midnight from my fostering agency there was no mention of the need for specialised care. My pulse rises again, wondering what could be wrong – HIV? Hepatitis? I know from experience that foster carers are sometimes the last to find out such vital information.

Sister leans in conspiratorially. ‘We’d generally hang onto the poor mite for a bit longer but, well, you’ve probably been told, the family are making all sorts of threats.’

I nod again. Foster carers are often required to liaise with intimidating and hostile parents but tight budgets don’t usually stretch to the luxury of police escorts.

‘I suspect little Sarah has the tail end of something nasty in her system. We’re not entirely sure what Mum was on, though she claims to be teetotal.’

Don’t they all? I marvel, my heart sinking like a lift with a snapped cable. If she is withdrawing there’ll be a tough time ahead. For a split-second I wonder at my choice of career, until I feel her warm weight in the crook of my left arm. I’m taken aback by how light she feels, as if there’s nothing wrapped in the blanket but air.

Momentarily disorientated by the move, the baby stops shrieking and blinks around in surprise. The skin on her face is wrinkled and reddish. Milky eyes return my stare, narrowed pupils betraying the harsh substances running through her veins. Her expression is filled with a puzzlement that says, ‘Am I safe with you?’

Without warning she winces and her eyes screw up, the crescent of lashes disappearing with a wail of desperation. Her chin trembles, tiny fingers balling into tight fists. I begin to sway, aware of a grinding ache in my solar plexus; a longing to soothe the pain from her brow.

Slipping my right forefinger into her clammy palm I make shushing noises. ‘It’s going to be alright,’ I whisper, my heart lurching.

‘Has she been given any methadone?’ I ask, without taking my gaze away from her tiny face.

Sister shakes her head. ‘We’d need to keep her in the special care unit for that and the paediatrician thinks she may just get away with it,’ she squeezes my arm, ‘with a lot of TLC.’

Twenty minutes later I unwind the hospital blanket and dress her in a thick all-in-one coat. Without the stiff swaddling she feels almost weightless, like a terrifyingly vulnerable life-like doll. Her limbs flop in my hands like cooked noodles and I have to take a few deep breaths to calm myself as I set the baby car seat on the floor and secure the straps around her; they seem far too harsh and unforgiving against someone so small and precious. She slumps over, still screeching piteously and I picture her curled up in her mother’s womb, where, even there, she wasn’t safe.

An icy wind hits me as I leave the warm building. I make soothing noises as I secure Sarah’s baby seat in the rear of the squad car but it doesn’t help – she howls constantly and with rising desperation. The sound sets off a siren in my mind flashing the message, ‘DO SOMETHING!’ By the time we pull into our quiet suburban street I’m frantic to get her out and hold her to me – anything to stop the crying.

After thanking Bob, I scramble up the path, surprised to find the front door yanked open in a fever of excitement and anticipation as my children, Emily and Jamie, rush to catch a first glimpse of their new housemate.

My mother hovers behind, as eager as they are to meet her new temporary foster granddaughter. She is one of my registered ‘back-up carers’ and only lives a few minutes away by car, a godsend on nights like this when I have to leave the house without much notice.

‘Ah, look, she’s so tiny!’ My sixteen-year-old daughter lifts Sarah from her seat like a seasoned professional, gently moving the screaming baby to a position over her shoulder and performing an instinctive little dance. Sarah’s cries weaken as her tummy is cradled against her foster sister’s warmth.

Half an hour later, Emily and Jamie reluctantly head off back to bed, Sarah still bawling as my mother cradles her in her lap. ‘Put a drop of brandy in her bottle, that’ll settle her,’ she suggests.

‘I can’t do that, Mum!’ She has no idea of the fall-out if social services even heard those words pass her lips.

‘Don’t look like that,’ she says defensively. ‘I’m only joking. Not that it ever did you lot any harm.’

Rolling my eyes, I swoop the baby up and try to tempt her with a dummy, knowing that sucking will help to ease her stomach cramps. Her lips are as tiny as two petals and surrounded by small blisters, the damage from her harsh screams. Fear grips my insides; what if she refuses to ever stop crying? Her voice is already hoarse. Mum warms one of the glass bottles of milk from the hospital, passing it to me.

‘You haven’t slipped any tea in there, have you?’

‘Course not, but you used to love a drop of tea,’ she says over the din. ‘Couldn’t get enough of it.’

Scoffing, I offer Sarah the milk, grateful for the reprieve as she guzzles hungrily. Mum leans over to watch and we exchange smiles at the cute little swallowing noises she makes.

After taking almost an ounce she falls into an exhausted sleep in my arms, her mouth still attached to the teat. I thank Mum then carefully creep up the stairs, terrified that her eyes will pop open the second I lay her in the hastily constructed crib beside my bed. She whimpers when I withdraw my arms, pulling her legs up to her chest. Even while sleeping, she is clearly in pain.

Switching off the light, I step out of my clothes and leave them in a discarded heap on the floor. Reaching blindly down to the crib, I pop Sarah’s dummy back in for the umpteenth time and slip quietly under my duvet. It has been a long night and, although tired, I feel a profound sense of fulfilment. Before fostering I didn’t quite understand where I belonged. Listening to Sarah’s gentle whimpers as she snoozes in the crib beside me lifts my heart. It is a matchless sensation, reminding me that I’ve found the job that fits me best. Despite the frustrations, interrupted sleeps and endless paperwork, I wouldn’t have it any other way.