Moving Fostering Memoirs 2-Book Collection. Casey Watson

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       Chapter 12

      It took some heavy-duty self-coaching that night to convince myself to stick with the placement. Phoebe had looked at me with such hatred that my instincts were screaming at me to put as much distance between her and the rest of the family as possible. Digging deep, I forced myself to draw on my drive to heal, on my past experiences, and the amazing turnarounds I’d witnessed before, so that I could turn the dislike I was feeling into empathy. She must have been hurting badly to feel so much hatred, her self-harming told me that. Once I felt more forgiving, I decided that the first thing I should do was to broach the subject of self-harm with her.

      After rehearsing the conversation in my mind overnight, I invited her to sit next to me on one of the fluffy beanbags in her room once she had washed and dressed, hoping she was in one of her more coherent phases. Since she flipped from rational to illogical several times in any one hour, catching her at the right time was simply a matter of chance.

      I nudged her playfully with my shoulder. She smiled, nudging me back. It was a positive start.

      ‘How’s your arm feeling this morning, honey?’

      From her hesitation and the way she stared at her forearm, almost in surprise, I got the impression she was thinking, what on earth is that bandage doing there? After a moment she shrugged and reached for a shiny bracelet on her bookshelf that had grabbed her attention. ‘It’s OK,’ she said, making a move to get up.

      I decided to move the focus to a previous, fictional placement. In the past I had found that children were fascinated to hear about others in a similar position to their own, particularly when I regaled them with tales of naughty exploits. It somehow helped them to conceptualise their own situation without the associated pain.

      ‘I looked after another little girl once. She was about your age …’

      Phoebe swung back to face me again, immediately interested. ‘What was she like?’

      ‘She was VERY badly behaved,’ I said dramatically.

      Delighted, Phoebe giggled. ‘Was she? What did she do?’

      ‘She painted our cat red. When I told her off, she cut off all the buttons from her school coat and dropped them down the toilet.’

      Phoebe gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth. It was funny how unaware she was of her own suspect behaviour. Totally unaware of the irony, she squealed, ‘That is very naughty! What was her name?’

      My eyes moved upwards to the creative area of my brain. ‘Jessica,’ I lied. There was a hesitation before I continued. ‘There were reasons why she behaved in that way, though.’

      ‘What reasons?’

      Studying her face, I replied slowly, ‘Sometimes she felt unhappy about things that had happened to her, but she didn’t feel she could tell anyone about it. It was difficult to keep such big things to herself so she behaved badly as a way of letting all those sad feelings out.’

      Instead of asking for more details, as I expected, Phoebe fell silent, turning her gaze back to the bookshelf.

      ‘I want you to feel you can talk to me if you’re feeling sad, instead of ever hurting yourself again. Will you do that, Phoebe?’

      ‘Will you do that, Phoebe?’

      The asinine grin had returned and, with a sinking heart, I knew our conversation was over.

      My dark mood lingered through the rest of the week. Every now and again a lump rose in my throat with thoughts of Tess and Harry, knowing I would have to break the news to Emily and Jamie that we wouldn’t be seeing them again. I pushed the thoughts aside – Tess and Harry were safe and well cared for, I knew that. Phoebe was the one who needed my help now and I determined to put all my energies into doing just that.

      By Friday afternoon, when I picked Phoebe and Jamie up from school, I had reached the point where even my accomplished acting skills were stretched and it was difficult to summon a cheery smile. Phoebe was back on form again after the self-harming incident four days earlier, repeating every word Jamie uttered as I ushered them both into the car. I heard him sigh as he fastened his seat belt beside me and another blade of guilt passed through my chest; he looked frazzled.

      I was about to pull him into a quick bear hug when Phoebe lunged forward with a wet finger outstretched, trying to smear his face with her drool. ‘No,’ I yelled, twisting in my seat and catching hold of her wrist. ‘I’ve had enough and so has Jamie! Now sit back and put your seat belt on.’

      ‘Sit back and put your seat belt on.’

      Jamie groaned. While counting silently backwards from 20 to one I made a mental note to teach my son the same technique.

      ‘Sorry,’ I mouthed at him, trying to bestow what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

      Fortunately for him, one of his football club friends had invited him for a sleepover. When we arrived at Ben’s house he leapt from the car with gusto, tearing down their path like a boy released from a burning building. СКАЧАТЬ