Damaged
I eased my feet from the duvet and felt for my slippers. The house was cold, as the central heating had switched off for the night. I fumbled to get my arms into my dressing gown, tied it loosely, and opened the bedroom door. Suddenly, I gasped in shock. Jodie was standing outside the door, her face covered in blood.
‘What is it? What have you done?’ I frantically searched her face and neck for the source of the blood. ‘Where are you hurt? Tell me! Come on, quickly!’ I couldn’t find anything, but the blood was fresh.
In a trance-like state, she slowly raised her hands and showed me her palms. They were smeared with blood, but I still couldn’t find any sign of a cut. I pulled up her pyjama sleeves, and then I saw it. She had a cut on her left forearm, about an inch long, which was lightly seeping blood. I steered her into the bathroom, and took her to the sink. I turned on the tap and ran the cut under cold water. She didn’t even flinch and I wondered if she might be sleepwalking.
‘Jodie?’ I said loudly. ‘Jodie! Can you hear me?’
She grinned at her reflection in the mirror, and I knew that she was awake.
‘What happened? How did you do this?’
She met my gaze in the mirror, but said nothing.
I washed the wound thoroughly and examined it. It wasn’t deep, and wouldn’t need stitches, so there shouldn’t have been nearly this much blood. It seemed that she had smeared the blood deliberately, for maximum effect. But how? And why? No one had mentioned anything about Jodie self-harming, but I doubted this was the first time she’d done it. I looked closer, and saw there were other fine, pink scar lines running up both arms. How recent they were was difficult to tell.
‘Stay here, Jodie,’ I said. ‘I’m going downstairs to fetch a bandage.’
She grinned again. That strange, mirthless smile seemed to hold meanings I couldn’t fathom, and it gave me the shivers. I covered her arm with a clean towel, then went down into the kitchen, where I opened the first-aid box and took out a large plaster. My mind was reeling. She wasn’t even distressed, which made it all the more worrying. Just as before, with her soiling herself, there was that cool calmness and detachment that was so strange in such a young child. It was as though she didn’t feel the pain, or perhaps wasn’t even aware of what she’d done. She couldn’t have cried out when she’d cut herself, as I would have heard her – years of fostering had made me a light sleeper. I suddenly had an awful image of Jodie sitting silently in her room, squeezing the cut, then wiping the blood on her face.
Upstairs again, I found her looking in the mirror, grimacing, but not from pain. She appeared to be trying to make herself as ugly as possible, screwing up her face, and baring her teeth in a lopsided grin. I peeled the backing from the plaster, sealed the cut, then wet the flannel and wiped her face and neck clean. I washed my hands in hot soapy water, remembering too late that I was supposed to wear gloves when dealing with wounds, to prevent cross-infection. In the panic of the emergency, I’d forgotten.
When she was clean and dry again, I felt a sense of normality returning. ‘All right, Jodie,’ I said encouragingly. ‘Let’s get you back into bed.’ She still didn’t speak.
I led her round the landing as Lucy appeared at her door. ‘You OK, Cathy?’ she asked, her eyes only half-open.
‘Yes, don’t worry. I’ll explain tomorrow.’
She nodded and shuffled back to bed.
In Jodie’s room I found her duvet in a heap on the floor. There was no blood on it, but on top was a small fruit knife I’d never seen before. I picked it up. ‘Where did you get this?’ I tried to keep the accusation out of my voice.
She finally spoke. ‘Hilary and Dave’s.’ Her previous carers.
‘Do they know you’ve taken it?’
She shook her head mischievously, as though being caught out in a game. I could hardly tell her off. I was more annoyed with the carers for giving her access to it, but I did understand. I had learned only from experience that leaving a child for fifteen seconds in the vicinity of the kitchen could produce untold dangers. I’d once fostered a teenager who had self-harmed, but I’d never known a child of Jodie’s age doing it. If a child has been physically abused at home, they can have very little respect for their bodies and are often careless about hurting themselves. Deliberate self-harm is relatively rare and is usually the preserve of teenagers. I’d never heard of an eight-year-old purposefully slashing herself with a knife. It was very worrying.
‘Have you taken anything else?’ I asked gently.
She shook her head, but I checked the room anyway, then remade the bed.
‘Come on, in you get. We’ll talk about this in the morning.’
She shook her head angrily. ‘Park,’ she demanded. ‘I want to go to the park. You said.’
‘It’s the middle of the night, Jodie. We’ll go tomorrow. No one goes to the park when it’s dark. All the gates are locked.’
‘Open them!’
‘I can’t. I haven’t got the keys.’ I realized the absurdity of this conversation. ‘Jodie, get into bed and go to sleep before you wake the whole house.’
‘No. Don’t want to.’ She made towards the door.
I caught her lightly round the waist and gently drew her to me. ‘Come on, good girl, into bed and I’ll tell you a story. We’ll go to the park in the morning. When it’s light.’
She struggled for a moment, then flopped against me. I eased her into bed, and drew the duvet up to her chin. I looked at her little head on the pillow, blonde hair falling over her face. I perched on the bed and stroked her forehead until her features relaxed. ‘Jodie, you must be hurting very badly inside to cut yourself. Is there anything you want to tell me?’
But her eyes were already heavy with sleep. ‘Story,’ she mumbled. ‘Free ’ickle pigs.’
‘All right.’ I continued to stroke her forehead, and began the story which I knew by heart. Her eyes closed and her breathing deepened. I kissed her cheek, then quietly came out and closed the door.
At five o’clock I was woken by a loud crash. I threw on my slippers and dressing gown, and staggered to her door, disoriented from lack of sleep. I gave a quick knock and entered. ‘Jodie! Whatever are you doing?’
She was up and dressed, with a football in her hand, and the contents of the shelves strewn across the floor.
‘Put that away,’ I said crossly. ‘You don’t play ball in here.’
‘I do.’ She clutched it protectively to her chest.
I went to take the ball from her, but she gripped it tighter. I was annoyed with myself, as I should have known it would only make her more defensive. I changed tack. ‘OK, Jodie. You put it down and get back into bed. If you can’t go to sleep, sit quietly and look at a book. I’ll tell you when it’s time to get up.’
I didn’t wait for a reply, but came out and closed the door. Without a full-scale confrontation, I hoped she might do as I’d asked. I waited and listened. The room fell silent, so I returned to bed, and propped myself on the pillows. Five minutes passed, then I heard her door open, and then another. I ran along the landing in my nightdress and saw Adrian’s door open. I rushed in and found her trying to climb into bed with him.
‘Jodie! Come away,’ I cried. ‘Not in there.’
I eased her off. She was a big girl, and a dead weight without cooperation. Adrian groaned and turned over. I put my hands under her arms, and manhandled her out on to the landing. She plonked herself down on the floor, folded her arms, and set her face into a scowl. I took a deep breath, and knelt down beside her.
‘Jodie, you can’t stay here, pet. Come into your bedroom and we’ll put the television on. Everyone else is asleep.’
She thought about this for a moment, then threw herself on to all fours and started crawling towards her room, her hands and feet thumping on the floorboards. I followed her in, relieved that I’d had even this much cooperation. She sat on her bedroom floor, cross-legged, staring expectantly at the blank screen. I switched the TV on, and flicked through the channels. It was too early even for children’s programmes, but the football seemed to capture her interest.
‘Keep the volume down,’ I whispered, ‘then you won’t wake the others.’
I wrapped the duvet around her shoulders, then returned to my room for my dressing gown and slippers. I went downstairs and turned the central heating on. It wasn’t worth going back to bed. I wouldn’t be able to sleep now – my thoughts were going nineteen to the dozen and my head was buzzing with everything that had happened.
I made a cup of coffee, and took it into the lounge. Jodie’s room was directly above, and all was quiet. I sat on the sofa, resting my head back, and took a sip. Suddenly, the calm was shattered by a man’s voice, booming loud with distortion. I gasped – the racket was bound to wake the whole house. I rushed upstairs to her room, and instinctively turned off the TV.
‘It’s mine,’ she shrieked, and lunged at me with her hands raised into claws. ‘I want it. Get out! Get out of my fucking bedroom!’
I took her by the shoulders, and held her at arm’s length. ‘Jodie, calm down and listen to me. I told you to keep the volume low. Everyone is asleep and you’ll wake them up with this noise. When you’re calmer, we’ll put it on again. Do you understand?’
She made eye contact. ‘I want the TV.’
‘I know, but shouting and swearing won’t get it.’
I was too tired to give her a lengthy lecture. ‘Now sit down and I’ll switch it on, but keep the volume low.’
She resumed her cross-legged position on the floor, and I turned the TV on. I tucked the remote into my pocket, and returned to the lounge. I sat and yawned, as the sun rose on a crisp spring morning. Our first night together was over.
Chapter Six A Very Troubled Child
‘You mustn’t thump, kick, bite or push,’ I said, for the third time that morning. ‘Not Lucy, Paula, me or anyone. It hurts. It’s bad. Do you understand?’
She said nothing. It was nearly 11.30 on Saturday, the day after Jodie had arrived, and the girls had come downstairs after their weekend lie-in. Lucy was greeted with a kick from Jodie.
‘I don’t want to have to tell you again, Jodie. Do I make myself clear?’
She pulled a face and stomped off down the hall.
‘Sorry, Lucy,’ I said. Lucy shrugged. We all knew there was not much to be done about Jodie’s vicious behaviour except to keep reinforcing that it was bad and that she mustn’t do it.
A moment later Jodie reappeared, her fists clenched and flaying the air. ‘It’s them! I’ll kick you to death! Get out! I hate you all!’
Her eyes blazed as she tried to kick Paula this time, who deftly stepped out of the way. I went towards her, and avoided the kick aimed at me. ‘Jodie,’ I said evenly, ‘Jodie. Calm down and come here.’
She screamed, then dropped to her knees and started thumping her face and head viciously. She badly wanted to hurt herself. As Jodie pounded her head with her fists, I knelt down behind her and took hold of her arms, crossing them in front of her body. She was still screaming, and her legs were thrashing, but with her arms enfolded she couldn’t harm herself or me. I held her close, so that her back was resting against my chest. The screaming and thrashing reached a peak, and then eventually subsided. I waited patiently until she was calm, then slowly relaxed my hold.
‘OK?’ I asked gently, before I finally let go.
She nodded, and I turned her round to face me. We were both still on the floor. Her cheeks were red and blotchy, and she looked surprised, probably because I’d managed her anger, rather than fleeing for safety into another room. A moment later I helped her up, then took her into the kitchen, where I sponged her face and gave her a drink. She was calm now, calmer than I’d seen her since she first arrived. I hoped she’d got something out of her system.
Paula reappeared in the kitchen. ‘Jodie, would you like to do a jigsaw puzzle with me?’ she asked casually.
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ I said, amazed at Paula’s resilience and generosity. She understood that Jodie’s violent behaviour wasn’t directed at her personally; Jodie wanted to strike out at the whole world because she was hurting so much, and whoever was standing in her way would bear the brunt of her pain. Paula could sense this, and was prepared to forget and offer friendship and time. I was very proud of her.
‘Shall we go to the cupboard and choose one?’ Paula asked.
We found a jigsaw and went through to the lounge, where Paula and Jodie settled down to assemble the puzzle. I left them to it and returned to the kitchen to prepare lunch. I could hear Paula suggesting where the pieces should go, and Jodie replying, ‘That’s it, my girl. You can do it.’ She was like a little old woman, but at least she was relating to Paula in a positive way.
With her short attention span, it didn’t take long for Jodie to become bored, so Paula laid out some paper on the kitchen table, and tried to help her paint, while I made a cup of tea. Jodie could barely grip the paintbrush, and couldn’t grasp the concept of painting a picture ‘of ’ something.
‘What’s that you’re painting, Jodie?’ Paula asked.
‘Dark.’
‘Is it a sheep, or a horse? That looks a bit like a big horse.’
Jodie didn’t respond, intent on her clumsy project.
‘Maybe you could paint the sky with this nice blue?’
‘No. Black,’ Jodie said.
Despite Paula’s encouragement, Jodie continued to paint nothing but large, dark splodges, with no interest in the other colours, and no apparent desire for the paintings to represent anything. I’d seen this before; children who have been abused and are hurting sometimes only use very dark colours. It’s as if their senses have shut down and they don’t notice anything about the world around them, so they don’t see colours and shapes in the same way normal children do.
We ate lunch in relative calm, although it felt more like dinner to me, having been up for so long. The peace lasted into the afternoon, and I thought now would be a good time to take the photograph of Jodie that was required for the Social Services’ records. I fetched my camera, and explained to Jodie why I was taking it.
‘Is it all right to take your picture, sweet?’ I asked. It was important to give Jodie as much control as possible, to increase her feeling of stability and security.
She shrugged, which I decided to take as consent. Paula moved to one side, so I had just Jodie in the picture. I looked through the lens, and framed her head and shoulders against the wall, centring her in the viewfinder.
‘You can smile, Jodie,’ I said. She was looking very stern.
I saw her mouth pucker to a sheepish grin, then an arm came up, and she disappeared from view. ‘Very funny, Jodie. Come on, stand still.’ I was still looking through the lens. Then her other arm came up, and with it her jumper.
I lowered the camera. ‘Jodie, what are you doing?’
‘Taking off my clothes.’
‘Why?’ asked Paula, and quickly pulled Jodie’s top back into place.
She didn’t answer. She was staring at me, but not scowling, so I quickly took the photograph and closed the camera. ‘Jodie, we don’t normally take our clothes off for a photograph,’ I said. ‘Why did you do that?’
She took a piece of the jigsaw and tried to place it. ‘Want to,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘Want to. My clothes.’
‘I know, sweet, but why take them off for a photograph? I didn’t ask you to.’
She turned to Paula. ‘You helping, girl, or not?’
I smiled at Paula, and nodded for her to continue. I went over to my filing cabinet under the stairs and unlocked it. I wasn’t going to jump to conclusions about Jodie’s behaviour, but I had to make a note of it in the log. I took out the desk diary that the fostering agency had supplied and settled down to write everything that had happened so far. The ‘log’ is a daily record of a child’s progress, and is something that all foster carers keep. It is used to update the social workers and to monitor the child’s progress, and it’s sometimes used as evidence during care proceedings in court. I was assiduous about keeping it up to date because I knew only too well how one incident could blend into another and how disturbed nights could all seem the same after a while. Detail was important: only with careful notes could a pattern of behaviour start to emerge. I made a note of exactly what had happened: the self-harming in the night and the strange detachment; the lashing out at other people and violent tantrums marked by Jodie’s desire to hurt herself; and this strange and unsettling response to having her photograph taken. Why had she started to take her clothes off?
I was resolute that I would not rush into any hasty judgements. I needed to accept Jodie exactly as she was for the time being and then see what came from the pattern of her behaviour. I was uneasy, though, and also found it cathartic to be able to put it down on paper.
With the other two out for the day, Paula and I took it in turns to entertain Jodie throughout the afternoon, but despite this, and for no apparent reason, she threw another full-scale tantrum. I allowed her to continue for a few minutes, hoping it would run its course. When it didn’t, and the high-pitched screaming became intolerable, I enfolded her in my arms as I had before, until she had calmed down. Later, I made another note of Jodie’s erratic behaviour in the log. I was doing a lot of writing.
Our first weekend with Jodie was an exhausting and disturbing experience. Although none of us said anything, it was obvious that we were all thinking the same thing. But it was early days and we all knew from experience that children can settle down after an initial bout of odd behaviour.
‘She’s a very troubled child,’ I said to Jill when she phoned the following Monday to see how things were going. I told her about the self-harming and the violent and aggressive tantrums.
‘Yes, that is bad,’ said Jill. ‘It’s very disturbed behaviour, particularly in such a young child. Do you think you can cope with her?’
‘I’m determined to try,’ I said. ‘She’s hardly been here five minutes. I want to give her as much of a chance as possible. Besides, we knew she was not going to be easy from the start so we can’t be surprised if she’s a handful at first. I’m keeping detailed notes of everything that happens, though.’
‘Good. We’ll just have to monitor it and see how it goes. You’re definitely the best person she could possibly be with, so as long as you’re happy, I know she’s in safe hands.’
I listened out for Jodie – she was occupied watching a Tiny Tots video – and then went through my log for Jill, trying to think of something positive to say. ‘She eats well. Actually, she gorges. I’m having to limit her intake. She nearly made herself sick yesterday. Apart from a healthy appetite, she doesn’t have much else going for her at present, I’m afraid.’
‘Do you think she can be contained within a family, Cathy? If she can’t, the borough will have to start looking for a therapeutic unit, and they’re few and far between. I have every faith in your judgement.’
I appreciated the compliment, but it was small comfort. I was already exhausted. I was worried about whether or not I’d be able to see this through and the prospect of failing before I’d even begun did nothing for my stamina. ‘She’s got contact with her parents tomorrow and her tutor’s coming for a couple of hours next week. Perhaps a familiar face might help settle her. She’s been seeing her tutor since September.’
‘OK, Cathy, we’ll see how it goes. I’ll update Eileen. What are you going to do with her today?’
‘Retail therapy. Courtesy of Tesco’s.’
Jill laughed. ‘I’ll give it a wide berth.’
Jodie apparently loved food shopping, unlike the rest of my family who could think of nothing worse than a trip to the supermarket. She was in her element, pushing the trolley up and down, telling me what we should or shouldn’t buy. In fact, she was so enthusiastic I had to limit her exuberance, and return some items to the shelves.
This wasn’t unusual; children in care often seem to feel that all their problems can be solved by a bottomless purse. Children I’d looked after often had a desperate need for material goods. In the homes they had come from money was often short, and when there was any it was frequently spent on drink, drugs or cigarettes. When I started buying my foster children little treats, they would often find it very exciting and pleasurable: treats were something they had very little experience of. But I always had to be careful about managing their expectations, as they could very quickly become demanding and assume they’d be given anything they wanted. Jodie was a different case, though; from the looks of her luggage and her weight, treats had never been in short supply – which meant that she was used to getting anything she fancied. I hoped it wasn’t going to be too much of a struggle restricting her to a sensible limit, but experience was already teaching me to expect a battle.
‘Three packets of cereal is plenty,’ I said. ‘Choose one you’d like and we’ll put the others back.’
She wanted them all, of course, and every packet of biscuits, and every dessert in the freezer cabinet, so I was spending as much time taking things out of the trolley as I was putting them in, but at least she was occupied and content.
It took nearly two hours to complete the weekly shop, and as we finally reached the check-out Jodie spotted the display of sweets, tantalizingly placed at the side of the aisle. I started unloading the trolley on to the belt, and told her to choose a bar of chocolate as a treat, because she’d been such a good girl and helped.
‘One,’ I repeated, as the bags of sweets started raining into the trolley. But I could see her previous cooperation was waning fast. ‘Take the chocolate bonbons, you like those.’
‘Want them all!’ she shouted, and then sat on the floor defiantly.
The woman queuing behind us was clearly unimpressed by my parenting skills, and shot me one of those looks. I unloaded the last of the shopping, including the bonbons, onto the conveyor, and put the other sweets back on the rack. I watched Jodie out of the corner of my eye. Her anger was mounting, as she crossed her legs, folded her arms and set her face in a sneer. She kicked the trolley so that it jarred against my side. I clenched my teeth, pretending that it hadn’t hurt. I pulled the trolley through the aisle and positioned it at the end, ready to receive the bags of shopping.
‘Are you going to help me pack?’ I said, trying to distract her. ‘You were a big help earlier and I could do with your help now.’
She refused to make eye contact, and I began to wonder how I was going to remove her from the aisle, but I was determined that she wouldn’t get what she wanted by making a scene in public.
‘Don’t want those sweets,’ she suddenly yelled. ‘Don’t like them.’
I looked at her. ‘Don’t shout, please. I’ve said you can choose one, but hurry up. We’ve nearly finished.’
People were now openly staring. Petulantly, Jodie hauled herself to her feet, picked up a family-sized bag of boiled sweets and threw them at the cashier.
‘Jodie!’ I turned to the cashier, who was busy exchanging meaningful glances with the woman behind us. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I paid, apologized again, and we left.
Outside, I ignored Jodie’s screams for the sweets and pushed the trolley fast towards the car. I unlocked the doors and strapped her under her belt. ‘Stay there while I load the bags into the boot. I’m cross, Jodie. That was very naughty.’
I watched her through the rear window. Her jaw was clenched as she muttered to herself and thumped the seat beside her. I knew how she felt; I was in the mood for thumping the seat myself. It had been a draining experience already and all I could do was prepare myself for more hurricanes and hysteria. Giving in to tantrums wouldn’t help her or me in the long term.