Can I Let You Go?: Part 1 of 3: A heartbreaking true story of love, loss and moving on. Cathy Glass
and monitoring, like a child would. She’s coping reasonably well with being pregnant and will return to live with her grandparents once the baby is born. They don’t know who the father is, and Becky says that the grandmother has taken Faye getting pregnant rather badly. She thinks some of their “not coping” is because of this.’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘I’m sure her grandmother will feel differently once the baby is born and she sees her great-grandchild. No one can resist a baby.’
There was a short silence on the other end of the phone before Edith said, ‘Sorry, Cathy, I should have made it clearer sooner. Faye isn’t keeping her baby. You will be supporting her while she is pregnant, but as soon as the baby is born it will be taken into care.’
‘Oh,’ I said, my heart sinking. ‘Why?’
‘Faye can’t possibly look after a baby. She functions at about the age of an eight-year-old. Realistically her grandparents couldn’t look after it either. There is no alternative. Once the baby has been checked over by the doctor, assuming all is well a foster carer will collect the baby from hospital and look after it until adoptive parents are found.’
I was sitting on the sofa in the living room, staring straight ahead. My feelings of hope and optimism at the thought of a new baby were now completely dashed. As a foster carer I’d had to collect a new baby from a hospital without its mother some years previously, and it had been heartbreaking. This would be even worse. Faye would be with me and part of my family for the next three months; we would bond with her and her unborn baby, while knowing all along that she was going to have to give it up as soon as it was born and would never have the chance to be a mother. It would be soul destroying and possibly more than I or my family could reasonably cope with right now. However, foster carers are expected to accept the referrals made to them through their support social worker. It’s not a pick-and-choose situation – I’ll take this child, but not that one. Carers can be registered to foster a certain age group, but many, like me, foster the whole range, from birth to young adult. Unless there is a very good reason why carers can’t accept a specific child, they are expected to take them, for obviously the younger person needs a home. I suppose I could have said that after losing my father we weren’t ready to foster again, but that wouldn’t have been strictly true.
Edith heard my silence and added: ‘You don’t have to worry about Faye being very distraught. Becky said she’s fine about giving up her baby for adoption.’
‘Is she?’ I asked, amazed.
‘Yes. Becky had a long discussion with her and her grandparents. Faye appreciates she would never be able to look after a baby and her grandparents are in no position to help. They have their own needs. Faye’s being very positive. Becky has suggested you all meet at two o’clock on Thursday afternoon. Is that all right with you?’
I was silent again before I said, ‘Yes.’
‘The meeting is at their flat. I’ll ask Becky to contact you with the address and placement details today. Phone her or me if there’s anything you’re not sure of.’
‘All right,’ I said. And we said goodbye.
I set down the phone and remained where I was in the living room. Through the patio doors I could see the blue sky beyond. Although it was mid-September it was another fine day, with the sun shining in a cloudless sky. I could hear movement upstairs as Adrian, Paula and Lucy slowly got up. Adrian and Lucy had taken an extra day off work after the funeral. Adrian had finished university and was working temporarily in a supermarket until he decided what he wanted to do (he was thinking of accountancy). Lucy worked at a local nursery and Paula, having passed her A-level exams, was starting at a local college the following week. It was now 10.30 a.m. and the meeting with Faye was the day after tomorrow.
As each of my family came downstairs I told them what Edith had said and asked them for their opinion.
‘That’s very sad,’ Paula said. ‘But we can look after Faye.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh, yes. She sounds nice.’
When Lucy came down her response was, ‘Perhaps Faye will change her mind and keep the baby.’ So I explained that this wasn’t an option because of her learning disabilities.
‘Well, someone has got to look after her,’ Lucy said pragmatically. ‘So it may as well be us.’ Lucy had been in and out of foster care before coming to live with me eight years previously and was now my adopted daughter. She had a slightly different view of being in care and I valued her opinion.
‘If the baby has to go for adoption,’ Adrian said when I told him, ‘then I think it’s better that it’s taken away at birth. I’m sure it would be more upsetting to bond with the baby, love it, and then have to say goodbye.’
‘So you think we should look after Faye?’ I asked.
‘Yes, if you do. But, Mum, I know that whatever happens you’ll make sure she is OK.’
‘Thanks for your vote of confidence,’ I said, although I really didn’t see how she could be OK – not a mother having to give up her baby.
Chapter Two
At 1.45 p.m. on Thursday I entered the elevator in the high-rise block on the edge of town where Faye lived with her grandparents. The design of the building, once hailed as innovative and the future for city living, with the passing of time now seemed a monstrous piece of architecture, and was the last of four to be left standing. The others had been demolished and the social housing tenants relocated to a new estate. At some point this would be too. The elevator reeked of disinfectant. I pressed the button and began the ride to the eighth floor. I wasn’t surprised that Faye’s grandparents, exiled up here with their limited mobility, were struggling. What happened when the elevator broke? I wondered. From what Becky, Faye’s social worker, had told me, they couldn’t manage the eight flights of stairs, and not for the first time in my life I felt very grateful that I had a nice home and my family and I were all in good health.
The elevator ground to a halt and the doors juddered open. I stepped out and over a discarded bag of half-eaten fish and chips that someone hadn’t bothered to throw in a bin. I went along the corridor to flat 87 and pressed the bell. The door, like all the others in the corridor, was dark green and in need of a repaint, but that wouldn’t happen now the block was due for demolition. Edith, my support social worker, wasn’t attending this introductory meeting, and this would be the first time I met Faye’s social worker, Becky, although we had spoken on the phone.
A woman answered the door with a cheery, ‘Good afternoon, you must be Cathy. I’m Becky. Pleased to meet you.’
‘And you.’
We shook hands and I went in and closed the door, then followed Becky down the short hall into the living-cum-dining room. She was a mature social worker with a friendly, relaxed manner that I thought would put anyone at ease.
‘This is Cathy, the foster carer I’ve been telling you about,’ Becky said to the three people in the room. ‘This is Stan, Faye’s grandpa,’ she said, introducing me to the portly gentleman sitting in an armchair.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Sorry, I can’t easily get up,’ he said, extending his hand. I went over and we shook hands. In his early seventies, he was wearing a woollen waistcoat over an open-neck shirt and grey flannel trousers; his walking stick was hooked over the chair arm.
‘This is Wilma, Faye’s gran,’ Becky said, referring to one of the two women sitting on the sofa.
‘Hello, nice to meet you,’ I said.
‘And you,’ Wilma replied, looking me up and down. She was a similar age and build to her husband and was dressed in navy trousers and a matching jersey. Her walking frame stood