way,’ the midwife said with a curt nod, flinging the door open and ushering me through. Sweeping through a set of double doors, the nurse turned right and then took a sharp left along a narrow, less brightly lit corridor. When we reached another flight of stairs she stopped and faced me. ‘We’re going to have to speak to the social worker before you visit again,’ she said, sounding apologetic but brisk. ‘I don’t know what they can do about it, but she’s going nuts up there. We can’t let that happen again.’
After the sterility of the unit, it was lovely to get home to the scent of coffee and the pancakes Emily was making in the kitchen. She downed the whisk she was holding as soon as she realised I was back. ‘Tell me, tell me!’ she said, waving her hands so that little puffs of flour rose, speckling her rosy cheeks and settling in her dark-blonde hair. ‘What’s she like? Did you take some photos?’
‘Sorry, Ems. I didn’t get a chance.’
Her face fell. ‘Oh, why not?’
‘Photos?’ my mother said, coming into the kitchen. Mum was my back-up carer – after attending a course for respite carers she had been interviewed by my fostering agency, who had also checked her background to make sure she was responsible enough to take care of the children I fostered when I was unable to, and had child-proofed her home to pass the local authority health and safety standards check – and had come over to babysit while I went to visit Megan.
My son, Jamie, loped in closely behind, listening to his iPod. With earphones in place, there was that vacant, slightly sleepy look on his face that teenagers so often wore. I slipped a finger behind one of the thin dangling wires hanging from his ears and gave it a tug. ‘Hey!’ he moaned, jerking away, though there was a playful light in his eyes. ‘Quit messing with my muse, Mum.’
‘Just saying hello,’ I said, smiling. Cool aloofness was the attitude he generally aimed for lately but, at just 13, there were still lots of times when it eluded him.
‘Show us then,’ he said, with as much detachment as he could muster. He leaned in, trying to shoulder Emily to one side.
‘Ow, give over, Jamie!’ she groaned.
‘Sorry, I don’t have any piccies,’ I said, holding my hands up. ‘The visit came to an, um, abrupt end.’ I pulled a face and they nodded knowingly. Having fostered a number of children over the last ten years, my family were well aware of the pitfalls as well as the joys of fostering. While I was always careful not to tell them more than they needed to know, out of respect for the child’s right to privacy rather than any lack of trust, they had seen enough over the years to reach accurate conclusions of their own.
I spent the next half an hour telling them all about Megan and how lovely she was, all the while aware that Zadie was still shut away in her room. I wanted the teenager to feel as much a part of this new adventure as Emily and Jamie and, still unaware of the real reason for her withdrawal, I made a conscious note to try and include her as much as I could in the coming days.
Her reticence worried me slightly, but it was Megan who was at the forefront of my mind when I went to bed that night. Whenever I thought of her I felt an irresistible itch to get back to the hospital – I just couldn’t wait to hold her again.
It was another week before Megan was able to cope without the methadone. Her cot was set up beside my bed, the newly purchased sleep suits were all freshly washed and folded, and a steriliser filled with bottles and teats ordered from a specialist supplier over the internet sat unplugged on the kitchen worktop next to the kettle. We were excited for her to join the family, but the midwives had reported that she was frequently uncomfortable and, according to Angie, feeding remained a challenge. There was also some concern that, due to frequent vomiting, she might fail to thrive. She had already lost two ounces since birth so in some ways it was a relief to know that she was in the hands of experts and getting the best care possible, and that when she finally came home, she’d be that little bit more robust.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
