Moving Fostering Memoirs 2-Book Collection. Casey Watson

with soap?

      It was yet another anomaly to puzzle over.

      When we got home Emily invited Phoebe to sit at the table and do some colouring, freeing me to prepare lunch. I was amazed by my daughter’s fortitude – Phoebe had aggravated both of my children since first light so it was a credit to Emily’s levels of tolerance that she was even prepared to share the same floor space – but I asked Phoebe to go and sit at the top of the stairs for five minutes instead, as penance for winding Jamie up in the car by repeating everything he had said.

      As we sat down to eat he was subdued. I couldn’t help but smile to myself as he slipped past a sullen Phoebe, taking a seat at the opposite end of the table. He glanced sideways to make sure she was at a safe distance, wary of getting a wet finger rammed into his ear again.

      ‘I hate the way you make porridge,’ Phoebe said as she swept her bowl away, arching back in her chair. Her ribs were visible through her T-shirt. ‘I’m not going to eat it.’

      Extremely jittery, I got the feeling it was an effort for her to sit at the table, like she wanted to spring up and spin around the house.

      ‘That’s a shame,’ I said, non-committal, determined not to be drawn into a battle.

      ‘That’s a shame.’

      There was a pause. Nonchalantly, I took a bite of my sandwich.

      ‘I mean it. I’m not even going to taste it.’

      ‘Yes, I heard you, Phoebe. Now, let’s decide what to do tomorrow. We could go ice-skating or maybe hire some bikes and go for a ride.’

      ‘I’ve got to revise, Mum.’ Emily was studying for her GCSEs and so it would be good for her to have the house to herself for a whole day.

      Jamie shrugged his shoulders, eyeing Phoebe. A keen sportsman, he usually jumped at the opportunity of an action-packed day out. I guessed that his reticence was probably fuelled by the idea of another disastrous car ride with our new interloper.

      Furious that I was showing no interest in her hunger strike, Phoebe glared at me, drumming her fingers on the table. Writhing in her seat, she stirred her porridge round and round, then spun both hands around, hurling porridge through the air. It was then that I decided to stop pandering to her autism and treat her just as I would any other child.

      ‘Stop that right now,’ I insisted, wondering whether she was so manic because seeing her parents had made her feel extra homesick. Whatever the reason, I knew that being lenient wasn’t going to help.

      ‘Stop that right now.’ A glimmer in her eyes told me she understood exactly how infuriating her parroting behaviour was. I knew she couldn’t help it – her autism controlled her, not the other way around – but I couldn’t help but feel she was enjoying the effects of it too. Observing contact between Phoebe and her parents had been a telling experience. It was clear that she was allowed to rule the roost at home, with few boundaries in place. Watching her spinning her arms around, I realised that she was also dominating all of us too. I made a mental note to record the interactions with her parents in my daily diary. Regular records might help to paint an overall picture of their relationship.

      ‘Phoebe, if you don’t stop what you’re doing, I will have to make you stop.’

      All at once Phoebe picked up her porridge, throwing it across the table with a screech of delight. The edge of the bowl caught Jamie on the chest, the contents spattering all over the table and into his lap. With a loud crash, the china met the floor, cracking into several jagged pieces. Jamie clapped his hands to his chest, his face reddening with alarm.

      ‘Can I eat in my room, Mum?’

      My heart went out to him but I didn’t want him to sit in his room when he had done nothing wrong. ‘No, Jamie, you stay where you are.’ Grabbing a tea towel, I mopped up around him, determined not to let Phoebe sabotage our time together as a family. Tempted to yell at her, I held my breath, counting backwards from 10 to one. The urge subdued, I spoke with calm firmness, ‘Phoebe, I have asked you not to throw things. It’s dangerous and could hurt someone very badly. I’d like you to leave the table, please.’

      With a look of delight, Phoebe scooted off to the sofa, where she sat with her legs clasped to her chest, rocking manically back and forth. Jamie’s shoulders visibly dropped and he picked up his fork, tucking into his lunch with relief. Annoyed that Phoebe had achieved what she’d wanted but determined not to spoil the rest of our meal, I chattered about where we should visit over the next few days, the weather – anything to try and lift the gloom Phoebe had left in her wake.

      ‘So,’ I said cheerfully, ‘what’s on the menu for this evening, Ems?’ Once a week Emily cooked an evening meal for the family and really went to town, setting the table with candles, embroidered placemats and napkins.

      Emily opened her mouth to speak but Jamie butted in. ‘I wouldn’t mind having dinner on my lap again,’ he said drily, raising his eyebrows and staring down at his porridge-splattered trousers.

      Emily roared with laughter. I chuckled, burying my head in my hands. It was the first spontaneous laugh the three of us had shared since her arrival. The morose atmosphere lightened in an instant. Thank goodness for a sense of humour, I thought.

      Emily offered to wash up while I cleared the table. I was about to make a pile of the plates when I heard Emily gasp. Expecting to find Phoebe nibbling the remote, I spun around, shocked to see her half-inclined on the sofa, legs spread wide, with her jeans hanging at her ankles. With a look of frenzy on her face, she was panting and holding her knickers aside, trying to manoeuvre a pen inside the elastic. She looked like a young actress in a horror movie, the whites of her eyes on full display again. Emily was rooted to the spot, staring at the scene with her mouth gaping.

      ‘Upstairs now!’ I snapped at Jamie. I wasn’t sure if he’d seen what I had but I was praying his view had been blocked. His eyes filled with tears. Throwing back his chair, he gave me a wounded look and headed for the stairs.

      ‘Phoebe, don’t be so gross,’ Emily said, mortified.

      Putting a finger to my lips, I signalled for Emily to be quiet. One of the challenges of being a foster carer was learning to deal with shocking or taboo issues in a balanced, rational way. I still find it hugely shocking to witness a young child behaving in a sexualised way but I knew from experience that it would be wrong to express our disgust, possibly exacerbating the child’s long-term psychological problems.

      ‘Phoebe, don’t be so gross.’ I was grateful to see her sit up, a strange smirk on her face.

      ‘Emily, would you go up to Jamie? Phoebe, if you want to touch yourself, you need to go to your room and do it in private. But you mustn’t ever use a pen to do it, or anything else. You could really hurt yourself.’ I felt my cheeks flushing as I spoke. ‘I don’t want to see you doing that ever again, do you understand me?’

      Expecting to be mimicked, I was surprised when she gave me a look of bemusement.

      ‘Why not?’ she asked, simply.

      How could I explain such a taboo subject to a child with obvious learning difficulties? Her blank expression told me that she wasn’t remotely fazed by what she had done, or the effect it had on everyone around her. She literally had no idea that there was anything offensive or unusual about her behaviour.

      ‘No one wants to see you do that and I don’t want you to hurt yourself.’ It makes me feel sick to my stomach, I wanted to tell her but decided it would be wise to delay any further discussion until I had given the situation more thought. Instead I said, ‘Now, would you like to watch television?’

      There was no plateau, when caring for Phoebe. At the end of an exhausting day when all I wanted to do was get through the mission of dinner, bath and bed so that I could enter a ‘nothingness’ zone, Phoebe would crank things up a level. That evening I sat beside her in the upstairs hallway, reading the next chapter of The Giraffe and the Pelly and Me, sincerely hoping that she had reached a ceiling