Angels in Our Hearts. Rosie Lewis
Sarah for contact with her birth mother in the morning. Then, with a withering expression, she says goodbye.
The next morning I wake to a leaden, cold sky. It rains hard and steady from 5 a.m. and continues incessantly as I drive along unfamiliar country roads and through the black wrought iron gates of the psychiatric hospital. Stumbling through the sodden lawns with Sarah sleeping in the car seat lodged in the crook of my arm, my socks wringing wet and clinging to me, I feel a stab of irritation towards Sue, Sarah’s social worker.
During her whirlwind visit she neglected to mention that Sarah’s birth mother had been detained under a section of the Mental Health Act 1983 after attacking one of the midwives with her dinner fork. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I stagger across the sprawling grounds towards the hospital, wondering whether the car-seat manufacturer enjoys a practical joke with its customers by putting rocks in the base of their products. Bare trees cast skeletal shadows across the grounds and rolls of barbed wire atop the high boundary walls are a reminder that the hospital building, a large old country house with ivy-covered red brick, is not the setting for an episode of Downton Abbey.
A strong smell of antiseptic hits my nostrils as I enter the cavernous lobby. The receptionist checks my ID and directs me towards the quiet room where I am to meet Sue. A nurse, bespectacled, with a touch of rosacea on her cheeks, gives me a sidelong glance. ‘Can I help?’ she asks in a slightly suspicious tone, probably wondering why on earth I’d bring a baby to a place like this.
Sue suddenly appears in the corridor, flanked by another member of staff. ‘This way,’ she trills. The attendant, a stout, short woman with cropped hair, leads the way down another bleak corridor, this one separated by several iron doors. Reaching for the large bunch of keys hanging from her waist band, she turns to us. ‘Stay near the door so you’ve got a quick exit if you need one,’ she mouths, ushering us into a side room.
Alarmed, I stare wide-eyed at Sue but she waves her hand. ‘It’s alright, I’ll be right beside you.’ Suddenly I find her redoubtable presence hugely reassuring and wonder if I’d be just as forbidding after twenty years doing her job.
The room is small and at the far end an overweight young woman lies face down on a bed. Barely out of her teenage years, she lifts her head slowly as we enter the room, such a delayed reaction that I wonder if she is heavily sedated.
‘Morning, Sam,’ Sue says, briskly. ‘You’ve only got half an hour’s contact so come along, sit yourself up.’
Obediently, Sam rises, her flimsy T-shirt riding up. Deep scarlet stretch marks and sagging skin remind me how recently she gave birth. The young woman glances towards me through a curtain of dark, lank hair with heavy, swollen eyes. She meets my gaze and I smile but she doesn’t respond, looking quickly away. From outside I can hear the constant murmur of voices, the occasional sound of running feet. My palms begin to sweat.
‘Hello, Sam.’ Smiling nervously, I release the baby from her papoose. Sarah immediately objects, drawing her legs to her stomach and yowling. Wary of making any unexpected moves, I glance towards Sue for direction.
‘Yes, go on, hand her over,’ she says in a tone that tells me she is accustomed to being obeyed.
Gently, I lay Sarah in her mother’s waiting arms. A dank, unwashed smell rises from Sam’s body and I feel a moment’s revulsion. Sarah screams and her mother takes this as a signal of hunger, lifting her T-shirt and releasing one of her pendulous breasts. With armpits raised the smell intensifies and I take a few steps back, forcing myself to focus on an unpleasant-looking stain in the middle of the carpet.
Oblivious to my embarrassment, Sam ‘encourages’ Sarah to latch on by slapping her over the face with an engorged nipple. Sarah tries to wriggle away from the mammary onslaught, throwing her head wildly from side to side. She yowls piteously, her skin the colour of beetroot.
Sue remains near the doorway, her expression watchful. Sam groans at her baby’s refusal to co-operate and I can sense her growing impatience. A vein throbs in my temple as maternal protectiveness roars up in me but I set my jaw and force myself to ignore it. It’s easy to forget that I have no rights to this baby. My eyes flick between Sue and Sarah, feeling utterly helpless. The social worker appears too engrossed to perform a rescue, scribbling away in her notebook.
‘I have a bottle in my bag if you’d prefer …’ I offer in a quiet voice.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Sam releases her grip and Sarah’s tiny head, downed with a thatch of hair the same colour as her mother’s, lolls back awkwardly. ‘Why won’t she shut up?’ She looks up at me accusingly. ‘’ere, take her.’
Biting down a sudden spasm of contempt, I take the sobbing baby into my arms and rock to console her. Her sleep suit is damp with perspiration. Had Sam shown some concern for her child, some remorse, I might have felt more empathy. Did she not realise the suffering her addiction had caused?
‘Contact suspended for today,’ Sue announces, snapping her notebook shut.
Sam stares rigidly ahead as I back towards the door, her face expressionless.
It’s funny how quickly our family adjusts to the needs of new arrivals, how normal it all becomes. When Sarah has been with us for almost four weeks, I pick her up from her cot and realise that the wail that was so nauseating in its pitch during her first fortnight has already toned down to an ordinary cry.
Encouraged, once the children leave for school I crank the heating up, then run the bath. Affronted by being undressed, Sarah shrieks, her features crumpling with rage but as I lower her into the warm water, her muscles instantly loosen. Her feet, usually arched in pain, flex and begin to wriggle in the solace of the water. Her legs fall open at the knees and tiny hands stretch to form a starfish.
Wrapped in a towel I take her back downstairs and lay her on the fluffy rug in front of the fire, amazed that she is still lying contentedly despite not being attached to my chest. Rubbing my hands together to warm them, I roll her onto her tummy and her head rests to the side. Confusion crosses her features and she opens her tiny mouth to protest but as I massage the soft skin on her back with gentle fingers she relaxes, expelling a tiny breath of air.
Witnessing Sarah as she blossoms fills me with a sense of achievement, reminding me of the joy I felt a few weeks into my first placement, eight years earlier. I was daunted when the three young siblings arrived. As they sobbed in their beds I buried my face in my hands, almost as bewildered as they were. A few weeks later I realised that trusty old-fashioned love, routine and discipline is often all the expertise that is needed to see a transformation.
When she’s dressed and back in her blanket I drop her next feed into a jug of hot water and hold her in my arms at the garden door while we wait for the milk to warm. Her eyes flicker to our horse-chestnut tree, the bare branches swaying in the winter breeze. ‘When summer arrives we’ll be out there on the grass, warming our feet in the sun,’ I tell her as I brush a kiss on her soft cheek and inhale her sweet, infant scent. Rocked by a sudden feeling of déjà vu, I realise she smells the same as my own babies did.
Her hand rises up out of the blanket and searches the air, coming to rest inside the collar of my cardigan. She clenches it and I coo at her, tilting her up to kiss her cheek. With parted lips, her eyes narrow and she bestows a fleeting, crooked smile. A sudden rush of love besieges me. No, don’t let yourself, I silently counsel.
By the end of our fifth week together, when Emily and Jamie leave the house I light the coal fire to bring a bit of cheer into the living room and turn the radio to Smooth FM. Sarah turns her head and watches as the flames sputter into life, her legs scissoring jauntily in response to the music. I’m thrilled. Clearly the drugs in her system haven’t adversely affected her hearing.
Bending on all fours, I lift her vest and lean in to kiss her tummy. She gurgles in delight, her pleasure bolstering my decision to reject the safer caring plan presented to me when I first registered as a foster carer. One of the conditions of the plan is that carers must agree never to tickle foster children. I refused, only signing when that particular condition was removed. Several other carers followed suit,