Читать книгу Trapped: The Terrifying True Story of a Secret World of Abuse - Rosie Lewis - Страница 9

‘We don’t kick in this house,’ Phoebe mimicked in response to my admonishment, her lip curled into an ugly sneer. She stared at me with defiance, her feet still firmly planted on the dining room table.

Following her brother’s recent footsteps, Emily had disappeared upstairs, shocked by the violence of Phoebe’s outburst. I forced myself to take a few deep breaths, my mind racing to come up with a strategy to deal with her behaviour. Making a mental note to research autism as soon as I had the time, I summoned a commanding tone. ‘Get down from the table, please, Phoebe. I’d like to show you around.’

As I spoke I ran through my discipline options if she refused to move. My mind drew a blank but fortunately she climbed down, giving me a flinty, hard stare. ‘Good girl,’ I said, forcing a bright tone. ‘Now, let’s show you where you’ll be sleeping.’

A shadow crossed her features, giving me a brief glimpse of a little girl lost, but a moment later it had gone, replaced by the same disturbing glare. ‘Woof, grrrr, woof.’ Phoebe followed, close at my heels. I sensed it would be futile to ask her to be quiet so I raised my voice above hers and launched into my standard welcoming speech, hoping she might be interested enough to stop.

‘This is Emily’s room,’ I said as we passed my daughter’s bedroom. I pictured Emily nursing her sore arm on the other side of the closed door and a wisp of anger rose to my throat. Seeing your own children physically hurt is a bitter pill to swallow, especially when they put up with so much anyway. Phoebe’s just a young girl with a complex medical disorder, I reminded myself, she probably doesn’t even register what she’s done.

‘We don’t go into each other’s rooms, ever. If I’m in my bedroom and you need me, you must knock on the door and wait, OK?’

Some of my fellow foster carers had been through the anguish of having allegations made against them and I wanted to protect my own family from a similar fate as vigorously as I possibly could. Of course, following the rules by keeping the children out of each other’s bedrooms could never provide full immunity from malicious allegations but by following the guidelines and keeping meticulous daily records, I was doing as much as I could to protect us all.

‘Knock on the door and wait, OK?’

‘And this is Jamie’s,’ I said.

‘This is Jamie’s.’

I stared at her, wondering whether she even understood me, although something in her eyes told me that she was taking in every word I said. I remembered reading somewhere that some autistic children could be very bright. It would be helpful to hear what her teachers had to say about her but as the Easter holidays were about to start that wouldn’t be possible. Going by what Lenke had said, Phoebe would be back with her family before the start of the summer term so I knew I might not get the chance at all.

Phoebe charged clumsily along the hallway but when we reached her room she hovered in the doorway, suddenly reserved.

‘It’s alright,’ I told her. ‘You can go in. Have a look around – this is where you’ll be sleeping. It’s a safe place. No one will come into your room except me, and only when you want me to. If you prefer me to wait at the door then I will.’

She turned slowly towards me, suddenly bereft. ‘I want to go home,’ she said, her bottom lip quivering.

‘I know, sweetie,’ I said, all irritation gone. For the first time since she’d arrived she looked like an ordinary, fragile girl. No eye swivelling, flapping of arms or yelping. I felt a flash of relief knowing there were times when she could be still, if only for a moment. Reaching out, I touched the back of her head, hoping the gesture would communicate my solidarity. She flinched, darting out of the way.

What did you do that for? I chastised myself. Knowing nothing of her history, I should have known better than to offer her physical comfort. Perhaps her parents were a bit heavy-handed with her, I thought, if the way she recoiled from me was anything to go by.

Lowering myself to my knees at the threshold of her room, I beckoned her over. She shook her head, backing away and barking loudly like a resentful Rottweiler guarding its territory. When she reached the wall she crouched, lowering herself to her haunches. Her barks subsided to little yaps.

‘Phoebe, can I come in and give you a hug?’

A look of puzzlement crossed her face and my heart went out to her. She seemed so lost. Tempted to sit beside her and take her onto my lap, I hesitated, waiting for her agreement. She stayed silent so I rocked back onto my outstretched feet instead; it would be wrong to assume she wanted comfort from someone she barely knew.

‘Phoebe, you’re safe here, honey. Do you understand?’

The tiniest nod told me that she’d heard so I reached around the corner and grabbed a notepad from the bookshelf beside her bed. ‘Good. Now, this notepad is especially for you. On one page I’d like you to write down all the foods you really don’t like and then I’ll make sure I don’t give them to you. On the other side you can make a list of your favourites. Is that OK?’

She shook her head and began barking again.

‘Does that mean no?’ I knew that food was one of the issues that children found most frightening when coming into care. The upheaval of leaving home, being separated from their parents and having to adjust to a whole new environment full of strangers was daunting enough. To then be confronted with strange, unfamiliar food seemed to be the tipping point for many children, often making their first mealtimes a traumatic experience, with lots of tears.

In the past I had found the tension at the dinner table could be avoided by finding out beforehand what the children liked to eat. Phoebe continued to shake her head and I wondered about the extent of her learning disabilities. Developmental delays weren’t unusual in children who were brought into care, although Phoebe, coming from a middle-class background, wasn’t a typical example of a Looked After Child. I knew the latest neuroscience research suggested that high levels of stress in infants could have a damaging impact on the brain, affecting future learning. Perhaps she was unable to write?

‘I only eat porridge.’

‘That’s fine,’ I said, in a reassuring tone. ‘Porridge makes a great breakfast – we often have porridge too. But what else do you like to eat? Pizza? Roast, maybe?’

Phoebe began to retch, her throat making sickening noises as she heaved. Her eyes bulged and she leaned over, projecting the contents of her stomach over the carpet. She flapped her arms as if in a spasm, spattering the vomit that clung to her fingers all around the room.

I couldn’t believe how quickly the vomiting came on. As I leapt towards her she howled, her eyes swivelling back to reveal the whites. I grabbed hold of her hands to stop her from dancing in the mess but she fought away.

‘No, please, leave me, no!’

‘It’s alright, sweetie. Come to the bathroom and I’ll clean you up.’

My hands were sticky with vomit and my own stomach lurched as a foul smell rose to my nostrils. Guiding her into the bathroom, I held my breath and began filling the bath. Squeezing a generous amount of bath gel into the water, I swirled it around, knowing she would probably feel more comfortable in the water if it was full of bubbles.

‘Right, get those clothes off, sweetie.’

Phoebe began to pant, backing herself into the corner of the room. She looked terrified.

‘Would you prefer to clean yourself up?’ I tried to keep my voice even, soothing. I wasn’t surprised that she might feel too self-conscious to undress in front of a stranger, but why panic-stricken? She looked up at me with bulging eyes and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

‘OK, I’ll go and clean up your room. There’s soap and shampoo on the side. Call me if you need me, won’t you?’

I hesitated for a moment but she didn’t move so I walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

After conducting a hurried clean-up in her room I knocked on the bathroom door.

‘All OK in there, honey?’

There was no answer. I guessed that she had her ears under the water, rinsing off shampoo.

‘Phoebe?’ Ducking my head around the door, I gasped in shock. ‘Phoebe, no!’

Lunging towards the bath, I snatched the open bottle of bubble bath from her hands. Blood sprung from her lip and I realised that I must have caught her gum on the rim of the container as I yanked it away. Clamping her fingers over her mouth, she stared at me in horror.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, Phoebe, but you mustn’t drink that. It’ll make you ill.’

She lowered her hand, staring at the string of bloody saliva entwined around her fingers. I expected her to cry but she continued to gape as droplets of blood spilt from her mouth into the bath water. Her whole body was trembling.

‘Did you hear me, Phoebe?’ I said, the metallic taste of panic filling my voice with urgency. She didn’t answer but a strange gurgling sound came from her throat. I began to tremble myself, worried that the thick liquid might congeal in her airways and choke her.

‘Don’t move. I’ll be right back.’

I dashed out of the bathroom and downstairs, grabbing a carton of milk from the fridge. If there were harsh chemicals in the potion, I guessed that milk might be the gentlest way to dilute the effects. As I darted back up the stairs my mind came up with a dozen catastrophic scenarios. What if she’d decided to start on the shampoo while I was gone? What if she lay convulsing on the other side of the door? Charging back into the bathroom, I was relieved to find Phoebe wedged between the toilet bowl and the bath. She was still naked and trembling with cold, her thin legs hugged protectively to her chest. Draping a small hand towel around her shoulders wasn’t easy in the confined space but I did the best I could.

‘Here, drink this,’ I said in a shaky voice. ‘It’ll make your throat and tummy feel better after drinking that yucky stuff.’

She shook her head, recoiling from me. I forced a soothing tone.

‘Come on, sweetie, have some milk and then we’ll go and explore the garden.’

She looked at me, unmoving. At the best of times it can be frustrating when a child flatly refuses to do as they are told. When their safety is at risk it can be exasperating. My usual coercion strategy is to make sure I have a few treats planned so that I can use them as leverage but at that moment there wasn’t any time for mind games.

I was tempted to grab her by the shoulders and yell, ‘DRINK IT!’ but instead I took a few calming breaths and reached for the empty bottle, scanning the label for advice. Avoid contact with eyes. If product enters eyes, rinse immediately with warm, clean water was all it said, but nothing about what to do if a vulnerable child whose care had been entrusted to you takes it into her head to down the half-full bottle in one.

‘Phoebe, please,’ I said, not too proud to use a begging tone. ‘Drink some milk and then we’ll get you dry.’

‘Drink some milk and then we’ll get you dry,’ she gurgled back, her pupils wide and staring.

Irritation cleared my head and I held up a large bath towel.

‘Come on then, up you get.’

Her bony hand darted out and she grabbed the towel, wrapping it around herself in a half-crouched position. The ends of the towel draped into the bath and over the toilet seat. When she finally stood up the floor got a soaking but at that moment a slip hazard was the least of my problems. Not wanting to let her out of my sight, I darted into my bedroom to grab the cordless telephone and guided her back into her own room.

‘You get dried and dressed while I make a phone call. Don’t worry, I won’t look.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t look.’ Her voice rippled as though speaking underwater. Clasping the towel tightly around herself she went to her suitcase and rifled through the clothes. It struck me as peculiar that she showed no concern for her own welfare: when my own children were unwell, if they ever caught on that I was worried about them, they would ask endless questions, seeking reassurance. But it seemed as if Phoebe didn’t remotely care that she might be in danger. I wondered whether she lacked the mental capacity to understand the consequences of her actions.

A quick call to our local surgery reassured me that there was no need to dash to the hospital for an emergency stomach pumping. According to the doctor, children’s bubble bath was non-toxic and unlikely to cause any long-term damage but he did suggest that Phoebe drink plenty of milk or water and told me to keep an eye out for any further symptoms.

Before she went to bed that night I conducted a sweep of the room, removing anything I thought she might be tempted to nibble on and unwinding the decorative lights that Emily had twisted around the foot of the bed. I was still fretting about what might be going on in her stomach. She hadn’t eaten a morsel since arriving hours earlier, nothing edible at least. No wonder she was so thin, I thought. I had managed to persuade her to drink half a cup of milk, though only through a straw. She gagged whenever I tried to tempt her into eating anything else, heaving at the mere mention of food.

Consuming bubble bath was one thing but I worried that if she was really hungry she might decide to snack on something solid during the night. If an object slipped down her throat, how on earth would I know about it before the morning? The thought paralysed me and as I stood at the door and watched her climb into bed that night I almost sighed with relief at the temporary reprieve.

‘Goodnight, sweetie. Now, you mustn’t put anything in your mouth, OK? I’m just down the hall if you need me.’

As I went downstairs I felt as if I was lowering myself into a narrow box, the sides closing in around me and the lid nailed down by unseen hands. It may sound strange but at the beginning of every placement I’ve taken on, there has been a short period when I’ve felt trapped by my decision to foster. I guess it’s a natural reaction – it feels surreal to suddenly be responsible for another human being, especially when there is absolutely no connection between you.

Thankfully, I have managed to build a rapport with each of the children I’ve cared for in a short space of time, usually within a few days. As each relationship strengthened, I found that the claustrophobia ebbed away. The trouble was, with Phoebe, I just couldn’t see it happening. Down in the living room, I visualised the virtual calendar I had in my head; she would be gone before the end of the Easter holidays – one day down, 13 to go.