Moving Fostering Memoirs 2-Book Collection

The social worker spoke with a tone of finality, clearly looking for a convenient pause in which to end the conversation, whereas I was only just getting started.

‘I don’t think so,’ I scoffed. ‘I’ve seen some risqué things on MTV but I’ve never known anyone to do that.’ Not even Rihanna, I thought, caustically.

Lenke sighed as if she’d repeated herself several times already. ‘Children with autism, they have difficulty learning the correct boundaries. The testosterone-suppressing medication was considered for Phoebe but there are too many side effects so it was decided not to go ahead with it.’

Before I had a chance to process this new information she was withdrawing, suggesting we meet ‘in the next week or so’ to discuss matters further. It was as if we were arranging to meet up to discuss soft furnishings. Frustrated by my cowardice at broaching the subject of moving Phoebe on, I ended the call and dropped the handset onto the table.

Never before had I felt as if I were floundering, with no idea what to do for the best. I knew that social awareness in children with autism was impaired but for Lenke to brush Phoebe’s actions off so lightly struck me as a cop-out. It also struck me as odd that, although well-seasoned social workers were practically immune to shock, she’d failed to sound as surprised by the pen incident as she might have.

I was about to pull the vacuum cleaner from the cupboard under the stairs when a sudden outbreak of noise drew me hurriedly to the kitchen. With my heart in my throat I threw open the patio doors, wondering what disaster had befallen Phoebe in the few minutes I hadn’t been watching her.

Blinking uncomprehendingly, I stood and stared at the scene unfolding in the garden. Jamie must have tied the skateboard to his bike because Phoebe was now riding along the path, towing my cheering son along behind. They both crashed into our heavy border of bushes and landed back on the grass, shrieking with laughter.

Half an hour later they tumbled through the open door, faces flushed, eyes bright. In high spirits they kicked off their shoes in the kitchen and charged into the living room.

‘Mum, can we play tennis on the Wii?’ Jamie asked.

‘Of course,’ I answered, staggered by this new development. Phoebe was rosy-cheeked, her whole face shining; I could barely contain my delight. ‘You’ll have to come off in half an hour or so, though, because Desmond is coming to see us.’

‘Yeah!’ Jamie loved visits from our social worker. In his younger days, before entering the field of social services, Desmond had spent some time in the US, making his living as a bit-part actor, though from the stories with which he regales us and some of Emily’s research on YouTube, it seems he was best known for his role in car-lot commercials. Besides having the most rubbery, expressive face I have ever seen, Des was a talented impressionist and regularly had us all in stitches. He was in the perfect job as far as I was concerned: a real live children’s entertainer.

‘What’s wrong, Phoebe?’ I noticed her standing frozen, knuckles white from gripping the Wii controller so tightly.

‘Who is Desmond?’

‘Our social worker – nothing to worry about, honey. He’s a lovely man, isn’t he, Jamie?’

‘Sure, he’s cool.’

‘What colour hair does he have?’ Her face was contorted, all trace of colour gone.

I considered for a moment, watching as she folded her arms and squeezed them with wringing fingers. Her chest puffed out as if she was holding her breath.

‘Erm, dark, I would say. Why?’

Her shoulders dropped at least an inch and she started breathing again, returning her attention to the television.

An unpleasant, creeping feeling returned to my stomach.

‘Why did you want to know what colour hair he has, Phoebe?’

She just shrugged.

As the day wore on my anxiety about Phoebe’s strange reaction grew. Desmond, who had been delayed by a teenage runaway, didn’t make it to us until about 4pm, just as we arrived back from the park. It had been a positive venture out, if only for the fact that we were all adjusting to Phoebe’s sudden outbursts and becoming adept at squeezing in our conversations between prolonged bouts of screaming.

‘Hello, Phoebe,’ Desmond said, holding out his hand for Phoebe to shake. I watched her reaction closely. She stood swaying from side to side with her hands hidden behind her back, eyeing him warily. ‘Come on, girl, I don’t bite.’

Des’s face was just a bit too rugged to be classed as handsome but with his wayward, dark curly hair and deep dimples, he definitely had an appeal. From the moment we met it felt as if we were close friends and so the usual politeness of colleagues was quickly dropped. Clearly Phoebe felt the same. Out of character, she took a step forward and offered up her own thin hand.

Immediately Des whipped his hand away. Stretching his fingers to make a fan, he twisted it on his nose. ‘Na na na-na NA!’

Phoebe giggled, watching him expectantly.

Jamie jumped up. ‘Hi, Des.’

‘Ah, young man – hello again.’ Des stretched out his hand and Jamie lunged for it, grabbing before he could pull away. As he shook it a loud farting noise filled the room, courtesy of one of the props Des kept in his pockets. Jamie fell about laughing and Phoebe joined in, screeching loudly.

It was then that the missile came out of nowhere, catching me right in the sensitive area at the side of my head, just above my ear. It hit me with such force that I almost lost my footing and Des lunged forwards, slipping a supportive hand under my arm to steady me. Momentarily dazed, I raised a shaky hand to my head then took in the shards of black plastic covering the floor. Jamie’s Wii remote lay in pieces all over the room, shattered after being thrown by Phoebe.

She stared at me triumphantly, apparently delighted by how unyielding my skull appeared to be. Still dazed, I couldn’t respond for a moment so I was grateful when Des whisked her away into the kitchen. I could hear him giving her a bit of a lecture as Jamie draped his arm around me. ‘Are you alright, Mum?’

Bless him, I thought. I could hear the anger in his voice but I was pleased that he was more concerned about me than his broken Wii equipment.

‘I’ll be fine. Sorry about your remote, Jamie. We’ll get a new one, OK?’

‘She’s so weird, Mum. One minute she’s fine and the next she’s all …’ He made circles against his temples with his forefinger, whistling loudly. ‘Talk about Jekyll and Hyde.’

Here, Jamie had hit on one of my private suspicions. Phoebe’s tendency for extreme randomness was one of the things I wanted to talk to Desmond about. After vacuuming up the mess, I settled an unrepentant Phoebe in front of a DVD and grabbed two stools from the breakfast bar, positioning them near the threshold of the kitchen so that I could watch her movements carefully but still talk without being overheard.

‘So, how’s the head?’

Gently, I rubbed two fingers over the sore spot. ‘I’ll live,’ I said, grimacing. I could feel a bump forming and knew what a sight I must look, with my unruly hair raked back behind my ears, but I was so at ease in Des’s presence that I really wasn’t too bothered.

‘That was a bit left field, wasn’t it? Has she done that before?’

I shook my head then winced as the pain rebounded around my eardrum. Pincering the top of my nose to try and staunch a looming headache, I said, ‘Well, she’s only chucked china thus far so I guess she’s decided to branch out.’

Des raised his eyebrows, a smirk on his face. ‘Greek, is she?’

I slapped his knee. ‘Stop it,’ I chuckled, rising to make us both a cup of tea. After switching on the kettle I turned to face him, leaning back against the worktop. ‘The thing is, these incidents come so out of the blue. There doesn’t seem to be an identifiable trigger – she’s engrossed in something then suddenly she grabs the nearest object and strikes. It’s like Star Wars around here.’

We both laughed but I quickly grew serious. ‘It does worry me, though, Des. It’s like there’s two different girls in there. One of them is lovely but … well,’ I lifted my hand and tilted it from side to side, ‘when I say lovely, I mean nowhere near as bad as the other one …’ I paused as I handed him his drink, gathering my thoughts. ‘Do you think it’s possible that she is two different people?’ I asked, taking Jamie’s earlier comment at face value. It was a theory I had mulled over as I had lain awake the previous night and now I voiced my fears they seemed ever more likely.

‘As in multiple personality disorder, you mean?’

I nodded. ‘You read my report – the pen incident, the smearing?’

‘Yes, disturbing to see in a wee young thing.’ His brow furrowed. ‘But what makes you think …?’

I described how Phoebe moved rapidly from lucidity to vagueness, with no apparent pattern. He listened with interest, his right hand stroking emerging stubble on his chin. ‘It’s as if every now and then a little alarm goes off in her head signalling her to embark on some nutty escapade. When calm Phoebe returns, I try to talk to her about it but she’s completely blank, as if she can’t even remember behaving so bizarrely.’

Des let out a long breath. ‘Who knows what we’re dealing with here but I very much doubt it has anything to do with multiple personalities, although it does no harm to consider all possibilities. Any input from CAMHS?’

I huffed. ‘Phoebe’s social worker doesn’t seem to think that’s necessary.’

‘There just doesnae seem to be enough money in the pot to go round these days.’ Des sighed, and frowning, he stared into his cup as if closely examining his tea. ‘It’s lucky she came straight to you, you know. I know it probably doesnae feel like it at the moment but I suspect you’re already making in-roads with her if your past record is anything to go by. I cannae help but think she’d have been a child who got passed around all the carers in the area before finding one experienced enough to help her.’

We fell silent for a moment. Shamed, I remembered how near I had come to moving her on, only that morning. When I looked up again Des was watching me keenly.