LITMIR.BIZ

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a look at your son, I want to say. He looks so alone. I find myself eager for contact to come to an end so I can draw him into a cuddle. It won’t be the same, it won’t mean as much, but it might go some way towards soothing that furrowed brow. Does she not know that it’s her job to show him how lovable he is?

      Before I became a foster carer I’d never considered that the ability to accept love was a skill that needed to be learned. I’d imagined that every child exits the womb with an innate capacity to be cherished. Tracy, surly and hostile, yet curiously frail, looks like she’s never had an affectionate cuddle in her life. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that she can’t pass a gift on to her son that she herself was never given in the first place. Remembering how ferociously Charlie clung to me as I put him to bed last night I can’t help but feel terribly sad, knowing that he had to come to a stranger to get some affection.

      Out of nowhere Charlie lunges at Tracy, scratching her face. She gasps and clamps her hand to her cheek, the other bunching into a fist.

      ‘You f*cking bully!’ she screams, looking ready to shake him. Her eyes dart from him to me, weighing up whether she can get away with giving him a quick slap. ‘See what he did to me?’

      It was glaringly obvious that Charlie lashed out in desperation for some sort of attention. Negative or not, anything was better than indifference.

      ‘He’s a little animal. Like yer f*cking dad, you are.’

      He learned at your feet, I feel tempted to say. Instead I stay silent, making a conscious effort to loosen my tightened jaw. Since fostering I’ve battled to master my renegade expressions, but by the look of suspicion on Tracy’s face my success is questionable.

      The awkward moment passes when her mobile goes off.

      ‘Hello,’ she says, brushing Charlie aside and resting her crusted feet on a large yellow tipper truck. For the next half an hour she receives a number of different calls while I play with her son, each conversation peppered with swear words. I like to think I’m not a prude – actually, remembering some of the conversations I’ve had with the likes of Amy and other teens, I know I’m not – but I can’t help bristling at the vulgarity of this woman. The most attention Charlie gets from her is when she hangs up on someone called Dwayne and holds up her phone to take a picture of him.

      ‘Photos aren’t allowed during contact, I’m afraid,’ I tell her.

      Tracy’s face reddens as she rises and, sensing an ill wind, I steer Charlie towards a wooden garage and a box of cars, hoping he’ll become absorbed. Her feet slap slap towards me and she stops barely a foot away.

      ‘You telling me I can’t take photos of my own kid? Why don’t you go f*ck yourself?’

      This close up I notice that her eyes are the same blue-grey as Charlie’s, except the whites of hers are threaded with the tracks of broken capillaries. For a split second I glimpse symmetry with her son; in the angle of her lips and the curve of her cheeks. With their faces momentarily merged into one, Tracy seems suddenly familiar and the connection warms me to her. For the first time I’m able to see past the hostility, registering the sense of hopelessness reflected in her dull, tired eyes. I can’t help but wish there was something I could do to help.

      ‘I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules.’

      She furrows her brow, wrong-footed by my conciliatory tone. For a brief moment she looks like she can’t decide whether to hit me or fall into my arms for a hug.

      ‘What’s all that over ’is hands?’ she asks, regaining her composure and striding across the room to Charlie.

      She yanks his arm towards her and he looks up, startled. This is familiar territory – a mother desperate to minimise her own guilt by finding something to criticise in another woman’s care, as if mucky hands are negligence on a par with falling from a first-floor window.

      ‘It’s felt-tip pen,’ I say soothingly, trying to calm her so she’ll release her hold on his arm. He looks terrified.

      ‘He had a lovely time drawing you a picture. I have it here, actually,’ I say, trying to deflect her attention and digging deep to draw on some humility. However difficult, it’s in everyone’s interests for foster carers to build positive relationships with birth parents.

      ‘Would you like to show Mummy what you made for her, Charlie?’

      Charlie scampers after me as I rustle around in my bag. When she sees the picture her face softens, breaking into what I imagine to be a rare smile. With an inward wince I realise why Charlie was so surprised to see a toothbrush; spear-like teeth jut from Tracy’s swollen gums at such awkward angles that I imagine it must be uncomfortable for her even to talk, let alone eat. I feel an unconscious rush of genuine compassion.

      ‘Aw, thanks. I like that, mate,’ she says.

      His thin chest expands and, beaming up at her, he throws his short arms around one of her legs. She briefly pats him on the back then begins pacing the room in tight circles, her fingers working over the keys of her mobile phone with such diligence it’s as though she’s being paid to produce a certain number of words per minute.

      Charlie looks as if someone has taken a pin and stuck it in his chest. Deflated, he turns his attention back to me, sombrely offering me toys to pass comment on. I exclaim animatedly as I take each one, trying to rouse a smile. It works, although every now and again he glances around, staring at his mother with a yearning that breaks my heart. An hour and a half after we first arrived, when I tell her that contact is coming to an end, Tracy buries her face in her sleeve and sniffs loudly. Charlie’s face clouds with confusion, then he joins her, tears rolling down his cheeks. I feel the familiar prickle of my own empathetic tears threatening to spill over. She’s a mother, after all, and one who can probably taste the fear of losing a part of her forever. I can’t imagine that any woman would ever truly want that.

      Later that afternoon Emily, Jamie and Phoebe decide to watch a DVD. Unable to agree on one, Emily and Jamie begin to tussle, each grabbing their own disc and trying to reach the DVD player before the other. It’s a playful exchange and I can tell that Phoebe wants to join in, but horseplay with foster children is forbidden.

      ‘Come on, you two,’ I say, not wanting the others to feel left out. ‘That’s enough.’

      Ready to launch herself into the scrum, Phoebe looks disappointed. What I hadn’t noticed in all of this was Charlie’s reaction. He’s crouching in the corner of the room, shuddering with fright. As I approach him he throws his head back, screaming in terror. His arms are locked at the elbows, his legs stiff with fear. As I crouch and take him into my arms his body is rigid, trembling and sweaty. Rocking, I murmur reassurance and eventually he relaxes, nuzzling close.

      Phoebe approaches and kneels silently in front of us. Her brow furrows, perhaps remembering how frightened she was when she first came to us. Reaching out, she touches his face with the edge of one finger and softly strokes his cheek. She’s come a long way from the detached, troubled girl who arrived so many months ago. I’m so touched by her gentleness that I have to look away to gather myself. Charlie gives us both a watery smile.

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