Crying for Help: The Shocking True Story of a Damaged Girl with a Dark Past

‘The main thing,’ Dr Wyatt explained now, his medical briefing complete, ‘is, of course, that you become attuned to the symptoms of a steroid insufficiency. Headache and/or dizziness, nausea and/or vomiting, wobbly knees, fuzzy thinking – the thing is, at all costs, to avoid a full-on emergency, so it’s always better to be safe than sorry. Increasing her steroids temporarily won’t cause her any harm, though long term they very much can. But it’s all in the literature,’ he finished up, cheerfully. ‘And you can call us any time you have concerns. Oh, but one more thing.’ He nodded towards the door now. ‘There’s also low blood sugar to look out for. It’s another common problem with Addisonians, but easily dealt with. As happened just now, give her a small bag of peanuts or something. Some of my patients swear by things like scrambled eggs, too. It’s the protein boost that helps. You’ll find she craves salt as well. Just the one thing …’ He paused again.

‘What’s that?’ Mike asked him.

‘The one thing, of course, as you’ve no doubt been told, is that Sophia’s been known to fake crises and low blood sugar. In fact, that’s probably what she did just then. For effect.’

I tried to take this in. ‘But why?’ I asked.

‘She’s a 12-year-old girl,’ the doctor said. ‘One who must take pills all the time and eat sensibly. Which must be galling. Especially when her peers can chow on what they like. But if she says she feels sick or dizzy … well, she’s learned, of course, hasn’t she? That it’s a sure route to getting attention.’

‘But how are we supposed to know if she’s faking or not?’

Dr Wyatt shook his head. ‘Please don’t stress overly,’ he said. ‘It’s just a question of making sure she follows her routine. If you make sure from the outset that she takes her pills in front of you – when she’s with you, that is – give her a healthy packed lunch and a well-balanced evening meal, there’s no reason at all why she should have problems. Oh, and get her school on board, of course. If you’re really very lucky, they might have someone on the staff who’s familiar with the condition. But if not – and it’s doubtful – then it’s really just a case of them exercising vigilance as well.’ His tone was reassuring, but I wasn’t reassured. I had no idea the condition could be manipulated like this and how much of a close eye we would have to keep on her. ‘And this could really be life-threatening – this crisis thing?’ I asked him.

He nodded. ‘They happen only very rarely,’ he said, ‘but potentially yes, one could be. The trick is to stave it off before it even looks like happening. Prevention is always so much better than cure.’

I thought grimly about the average adolescent’s mind. Being told you might do some damage to yourself in the long term never stopped armies of kids taking up smoking, trying drugs and getting drunk as skunks, did it? But for attention? Mr Wyatt seemed to read my mind. ‘The problem with Sophia,’ he said quietly, ‘is that she resents her condition and wants to prove she controls it, rather than the other way around.’

‘Or maybe she’s just manipulative,’ Mike suggested. ‘And likes to control those around her.’

Dr Wyatt nodded. He looked slightly taken aback by Mike’s comment, but I got the feeling he did understand. ‘It’s certainly true that some young people with chronic illnesses can be manipulative,’ he agreed. He then looked at his watch. Quite a lot of time had passed now. There were obviously more patients waiting. ‘But unless she tells us how she feels, I’m afraid we just don’t know,’ he finished. ‘But please do get in touch,’ he said, rising, ‘if you have further questions or need help. That’s what we’re here for …’

We were all quiet, lost in our own thoughts, during the journey back home. I was busy going through everything again in my head: the complicated nature of this new routine. I was expecting each child to be different, of course; with my first foster child, Justin, who counted major food issues among the many manifestations of how badly he’d been damaged, I’d had to create a wall chart and update it on a regular basis, detailing every aspect of all our upcoming meals. Not only did I have to write up exactly what we were having, but also when we were having it, almost to the minute. If I didn’t do this, he got terribly anxious and difficult, especially in the early days and weeks he was with us. It did improve, but it would create tension, even months down the line, if we ever deviated from it. Deciding on an impromptu take-away instead was, we soon realised, not an option.

This new routine, though, was a whole other ball game. This was medical and complex and stressful. I had to observe Sophia’s daily tablet taking, keep a track of her supplies, ring up for regular repeat prescriptions and collect them, and keep two emergency kits – one at home, and one for school trips and so on – to hand and ready for action at all times. Not such a huge amount really, but that wasn’t the point – it was just the enormity of the responsibility. I had honestly not realised until that very moment quite how serious a chronic disease like this could be.

I sighed heavily. Blow the long-term health implications for me – I was stressed and I really craved a cigarette.

I turned to Mike. ‘Could we stop at the next services?’ I asked him. ‘I need to pick up a few bits.’

‘And a cig?’ he said, grinning. ‘Course we can, love.’

We stopped at the next services – about an hour away from home – and all got out of the car. After such a long time in the car it was good to be able to stretch our legs, but Sophia, once she’d done so, climbed straight back in. ‘I don’t need to go in, do I?’ she wanted to know. ‘I’m tired. I think it’s the heat. Plus the stress of the journey.’

‘You go on, love,’ Mike said to me. ‘I’ll stay here with Sophia. Get your bits. See you back here in a bit.’

I bought the bread and milk I needed and ducked round to the corner of the building to the smoking area. I really must research this disease properly, I decided. I didn’t feel comfortable not knowing everything I could know about it. If I was going to be able to look after Sophia properly, then I needed to know when the wool was being pulled over my eyes.

I stubbed out my cigarette and walked back to the car, and the rest of the trip home passed without incident. Sophia, true to her word, seemed sleepy indeed. She didn’t stir for the rest of the journey.

Happily, for all concerned, the rest of the day went pretty well. When we got home Kieron had already arrived back from college, and their first meeting seemed a success all round. Sophia took to Kieron instantly, it seemed to me, and our evening meal felt as relaxed as it would have done usually, Sophia laughing and chatting and being generally very sweet.

But there was still something – a vague sense of unease I couldn’t shake. I’d definitely been rattled by the doctor’s revelations about Sophia having been known to fake symptoms, but not that shaken. After all, I’d spent almost all of the previous year with a much more obviously distressed and challenging child under my roof. I’d also had years of experience working with difficult children; it was almost in my blood to tease out what made these kids tick. But this one, I thought, was somehow different; more unfathomable. And so chameleon-like, it was frankly spooky.

Still, I thought, waking slowly and strangely serenely on Thursday morning, another day, another chance to get to know Sophia better, another opportunity to make a difference to the world. But my serenity didn’t last long. ‘Damn!’ I thought, seeing the alarm clock beside the bed. Nine o’clock and I’d only just woken up!

I’d have to get my act together, I thought grimly, as I threw off the duvet and registered that, once again, Mike seemed to have forgotten to switch the heating on. But no bad thing, perhaps, to be driven from my bed. This time next week we’d be back in the thick of a new school term. I had to snap myself out of this post-Christmas languor, and fast.

I dragged my dressing gown around me and hurtled downstairs, fully expecting to be greeted by the sight of my young charge, looking fed up and abandoned, in the kitchen. Or worse, waiting to take her tablets – it had to be in my sight, of course, and she knew that – and going rapidly downhill even as I slept.

But I needn’t have stressed. A quick glance around confirmed she wasn’t downstairs, and another back upstairs – for I was now, of course, going to have to be hyper-vigilant – confirmed that she was still sleeping soundly.

Time, then, to relax for a short while in the conservatory, with my own company, the paper, a sneaky cigarette or two and my sheaf of Addison’s disease information pamphlets. Pausing only to flick the heating switch and grab a mug of coffee, I opened the back door and went out into the conservatory.

But I’d not been in there two minutes when Bob trotted in, tail going nine to the dozen, closely followed by footsteps, which I assumed must be Kieron’s. Bob slept on his bed every night, so it made sense. But then he spoke and it wasn’t a he. It was Sophia.

‘Wow, it’s so cold in here!’ she observed, not inaccurately. I was pretty cold myself. After all, it was January. And this was a conservatory.

‘It’ll warm up soon,’ I said, turning round to greet her properly. ‘I just put the heating back on, so –’

I stopped and gaped then, on seeing her, pretty much lost for words. She’d come down in what’s generally described as ‘baby doll’ pyjamas. But there was nothing doll-like about them, and certainly nothing babyish, either. They were not only very short and frilly, and fashioned from scarlet nylon, they were also very, very transparent.

‘Good Lord!’ I said. ‘No wonder you’re cold, dressed like that! Haven’t you got anything more suitable to put on?’

‘What d’you mean?’ she asked, innocently, looking down at the wisps of material. ‘It’s a nightie. All my nighties are like this.’

‘Then we’ll need to get you some new ones. Do you at least have a dressing gown?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t wear them. Anyway, what’s wrong with this? Jean lets me wear these.’

I put my stash of leaflets down and stood up to return to the kitchen. It was making me feel cold just looking at her. ‘Sweetie,’ I said, ‘quite apart from the fact that you’ll catch your death, there are no men at Jean’s house, are there? But here …’ I thought instantly of the rapport she’d struck up with Kieron, and how he might react, faced with such a sight. He wouldn’t know where to look. He’d be mortified. ‘Well, it’s just not appropriate, love, okay? Though, I have to say –’ I couldn’t help voice what I was thinking. After all, the child was 12. ‘I’m surprised she let you wear those sort of nightclothes, in any case.’

Sophia stuck her lip out. ‘Well she did.’

Best, perhaps, I thought, to let this go for now. She was bound to be sensitive about Jean, after all. ‘Well, we’ll see what we can find when we go shopping.’

‘We’re going shopping?’

‘Yes,’ I said, heading back into the kitchen. ‘This morning. With my daughter Riley. And my grandson, little Levi. You’ll love him,’ I assured her. ‘He’s gorgeous.’

‘A baby?’ She brightened instantly. ‘Oh, I love babies! How old is he?’

Baby talk, I thought. Never failed to come in useful.

If the idea of Levi had put such a smile on Sophia’s face, actually meeting him in the flesh would, I knew, have her squealing with delight.

I was biased, obviously, but my little grandson was just lovely. Born the previous October, he was now just beginning to recognise faces, and delighted everyone with his broad toothless smile. It had been a shock, Riley starting a family so young, not least to her, I think – but she and her partner David had been together for a couple of years now, and they were a really solid couple. They were also turning out to be wonderfully relaxed, natural parents; Riley was obviously really cut out to be a mum.

And me a nanna, even though when they’d first told us, it had taken Mike and me a few days to adjust to the idea of becoming grandparents at the youthful age of 40 and 41 respectively. In our heads we were still just young newlyweds ourselves!

Little Levi couldn’t have come at a better time, either, as it was just before we had to say farewell to Justin, our last foster child, which had been a wrench and a half, to say the least.

I smiled as rustled up some scrambled eggs for us both, and Sophia took her tablets. She had two different pills to take in the mornings, then further doses of one of them twice more during the day. I smiled at her as I watched her carefully re-close the bottles. It would be nice to have another youngster in the family mix again. Whatever the travails ahead, I was sure I could handle them. Underneath all the outward behavioural oddities, this was just another child who needed some stability and love, after all.

‘And Mike’s going to pop out and get some picture hooks on his way home from work,’ I told her, as she tucked into her eggs. ‘So he can put up all your paintings in your room for you.’

She pulled a bit of a face. ‘I don’t know why Jean bought all those canvases for me, to be honest,’ she said. ‘I just pointed to one I liked when we were out shopping one day, and next thing she, like, started this whole collection for me.’

I had wondered about them myself, as had Mike. It did seem an odd thing for a 12-year-old to have her own art collection. And even though they were prints, and not originals, this was an art collection, there was no doubt about that. They were all by the same artist, and clearly of some quality. I’d initially wondered if they’d come from her mother’s home. But apparently not. Sophia had seen the first one when she and Jean had been on a trip to London, and Jean had bought it for her right away. ‘And she got the rest of them by mail order,’ Sophia explained. ‘I think the woman who painted them used to send them herself.’