Where Has Mummy Gone?

  ‘Oh, hi. I didn’t expect to hear from you yet.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to ask you about Amanda. I visited her today.’

  ‘That was nice of you. I was planning to take Melody in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Yes, I thought that’s what you said, but I wondered if you knew how ill she really was. She seemed very poorly to me.’

  ‘Oh dear. I am sorry to hear that. So her dementia has progressed rapidly?’

  ‘I don’t know. She slept the whole time I was there. Do you know what’s the matter with her?’

  I heard Dana’s hesitation before she said, ‘Sorry, Cathy, I don’t understand. I thought you knew Amanda had dementia.’

  ‘Yes. I meant the reason for her being in hospital.’

  ‘She’s in hospital?’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No, no one’s thought to tell me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. The assistant I spoke to at the care home said you’d been informed, or rather she said Amanda’s family would have been informed, so I assumed that meant Melody and you.’

  I heard her sigh. ‘No, we weren’t told, but we certainly should have been. Can you imagine if I’d taken Melody to the care home to find her mother was ill in hospital? What a shock that would have been for her! Sometimes our [the social services’] information sharing isn’t what it should be.’ I couldn’t disagree. ‘Do you know what’s the matter with Amanda?’ Dana now asked me.

  ‘No, but she’s very pale and has lost a lot of weight. She’s on a drip. I stayed for about twenty minutes and she didn’t wake at all, not even when the nurse came in to change her.’

  ‘I can’t phone anyone tonight, it’s too late, but as soon as I’ve taken Melody to school tomorrow morning I’ll find out what’s going on.’

  ‘Will you tell me, please? I know I’m not family, but I feel I’ve got to know Amanda quite well.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve found out anything.’

  ‘Thank you. How was Melody’s first day at her new school?’

  ‘Good. Although I was quite emotional taking her in. I never thought I’d be seeing my child into school. I’m so lucky to have her.’

  ‘Melody is very lucky to have you too,’ I said.

  It was mid-afternoon the following day before Dana returned my call. It came just after Jill had telephoned about a child the social services might be bringing into care and for whom they’d need an experienced foster carer.

  ‘It’s not good news,’ Dana said, her voice flat. ‘Amanda has terminal cancer.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Family

  I cried after Dana’s call, and again later that night when I was alone in bed. Not only for Amanda, who’d had a difficult and unrewarding life, but also for Melody, who instead of embracing her new life with her adoptive mother would shortly be mourning the death of her birth mother. Dana had said that Amanda had stopped eating at the care home and had been taken to the hospital for tests, but the cancer had spread. She was already very frail, and the doctors had given her weeks rather than months to live. It was a huge shock. Of some consolation was that Melody had Dana, otherwise she would have been an orphan. Also, a part of me felt that perhaps passing quickly from cancer was preferable to a lingering and dehumanizing death from dementia. But it was only a small consolation. How dearly I wished Amanda’s life could have been different.

  Dana didn’t yet know if and how often she should take Melody to see Amanda. She was going to discuss it with Neave, who was still involved until the adoption went through. Jill phoned and said that the child I’d been put on standby to take had gone to live with a relative instead, so I wasn’t needed for now. I took the opportunity to visit Amanda again that week. I didn’t take any food – there was no point, as she wasn’t eating – but I did take a little Christmas angel I’d seen while out shopping. With Christmas only four weeks away, the shops were full of festive goods and indeed I had started my Christmas shopping. The angel was about three inches tall and made from porcelain, with a long, white silky dress and delicate wings. She had a beautiful smile on her face, peaceful and serene, and I felt that if angels were real then they would surely be like her.

  Amanda was the same as at my first visit on Monday, the only movement the slight rise and fall of her chest. I placed the angel on her bedside cabinet so she was watching over her. A greetings card now stood open on the cabinet, and on the front of the card was printed, Thinking of You. Inside someone had written, ‘Love, Beth’. I didn’t know who Beth was, but I thought it was nice that someone else had visited Amanda or at least sent her a card. I stayed for about half an hour, then kissed Amanda’s forehead and came away. Later, I telephoned Dana and told her I’d visited Amanda and there was no change. Dana said she was planning on taking Melody to see her on Saturday afternoon and was trying to prepare her for seeing her mother so ill.

  Late Saturday evening, Dana telephoned and said Melody was in bed now but had been very upset at seeing her mother, although Dana had tried to get her to focus on how peaceful she was now. We agreed it was a lot for a child to cope with. Dana said they’d seen my angel on the bedside cabinet and she’d told Melody it was from me. Melody had said, ‘Mummy and Cathy were good friends,’ which choked me up. Dana said she’d take Melody again the following weekend, but only if she asked to go, as it had been so upsetting for her. I said I was planning to visit Amanda again on Tuesday, assuming a child hadn’t arrived as an emergency in the interim.

  It wasn’t to be.

  Around midday on Monday, Dana telephoned to say that Amanda had passed away in her sleep in the early hours of Sunday morning. This was sooner than the doctors had predicted but Amanda’s heart, already weak from years of drug abuse, had given up and just stopped beating. Melody was at school, so Dana would have to tell her when she collected her that afternoon. I said I was so very sorry, thanked her for telling me and asked her to let me know if there was anything I could do. I put down the phone and cried.

  It was a sad day and I found myself tearing up regularly. Foster carers don’t just look after the child; they often get to know their family and bond with them. I thought of Amanda and felt Melody’s loss. That evening when I told my children Amanda had passed they felt Melody’s loss too although they’d never met Amanda. No amount of training can prepare carers for times like this. Fostering affects the whole family in ways you don’t always anticipate. When I told my parents of Amanda’s passing they were sorry.

  At 10 p.m. that Monday, the phone rang and my first thought was that it was my fostering agency with a child that needed an emergency placement. However, it was Dana. ‘Sorry it’s late, Cathy. Are you still up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Melody wanted to talk to you. Is that all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘She’s been very brave. She thinks talking to you might help her, as you knew Amanda.’

  ‘Yes, put her on.’ I took a deep breath. I needed to hold it together for Melody’s sake.

  ‘Hello, love,’ I said as she picked up the phone.

  ‘My mummy’s died,’ she said, her voice slight.

  ‘I know, love, I’m so sorry. You’ll miss her dreadfully. I feel sad too.’

  ‘She liked you. She told me at contact when she could still talk that she liked you. I’m glad you were friends.’

  ‘So am I, love.’ I swallowed hard.

  ‘I know she got angry with you sometimes, but she was like that with everyone. She didn’t mean it. She was pleased you were looking after me. She said if I had to go into care, she was glad it was with you.’

  ‘That’s good.’ My eyes filled. ‘She’s at peace now.’

  ‘Cathy, do you think she’s with the angels, even though she wasn’t a good mummy?’ My heart clenched and I stifled a sob.

  ‘Yes. Definitely. She did her best to look after you. She loved you. Don’t blame her for what happened. Try to re
member the good times.’

  ‘Yes. That’s what my new mummy says,’ and she passed the phone back to Dana.

  It was a few moments before I could speak. I didn’t feel I’d been much help, but it seemed that Melody just wanted to talk to someone who’d known her mother, which was understandable. I told Dana that if she or Melody wanted to talk they could telephone me whatever the time, for it occurred to me that this was a lot for Dana to cope with too, so soon after Melody had moved in. I also asked her to let me know when the funeral was, as I wanted to go.

  I spoke to Dana a few times during the next two weeks. Amanda’s cremation, arranged by the local council, was set for 2 p.m. on the 17th of December, at a small crematorium about a twenty-minute drive from my house. I learned from Dana that Amanda’s other children, all adopted as infants and now adults, had been contacted and informed that Amanda was terminally ill and then again that she’d passed. One of them, Beth, had been planning on making contact with her birth mother prior to her death, fifteen years after being adopted, when she’d got the call to say she was in hospital. She’d visited her and had left the card I’d seen and would be at her funeral. Dana didn’t know who else would be there.

  By the 17th of December our house, like many others, was decorated ready for Christmas, although I’m sure the lights shone less brightly on the morning of Amanda’s funeral. I was fostering a nine-year-old boy and, aware I was unlikely to be back from the funeral in time to collect him from school, I’d asked another carer if she could collect him and look after him until I returned. She was happy to do so – carers often help each other out, and doubtless I would return the favour at some point.

  It was a crisp, cold morning with a wintry sun low in the sky. I took my lad to school, returned home, made a few phone calls and then changed into a black skirt, top and jacket and set off in the car. The high street was festively decorated. Dana had told me theirs was too. I could imagine it looked very pretty. She’d told me she had been planning to wait until after the funeral to decorate their house, but Melody had wanted to do it earlier. It would be Melody’s first proper Christmas, as she’d come to me in January, and I knew how much she was looking forward to it. They were travelling to the crematorium that morning and would return home after the service. It had been decided at the adoption planning meeting that my children and I would visit them over the Christmas holidays, but I doubted that would happen now.

  I arrived in the small crematorium car park with fifteen minutes to spare. About six other cars were there, including Dana’s, but no one was in them. The doors to the chapel were open, so I assumed the mourners were going in as they arrived. I didn’t know what format the service would take other than it was a cremation. I walked in through the vestibule and one of the crematorium staff handed me a white order-of-service sheet. Amanda’s name was printed on the front and beneath that her date of birth and death. I went down the centre aisle and slid into an empty pew. Amanda’s wooden coffin was in place on the elevated plinth at the front. About a dozen or so mourners were already here – more than I’d anticipated. I saw Dana and Melody, chief mourners, sitting in the very front pew, and in the pew to my left was the manager of the care home. She recognized me, nodded and smiled. Melody turned and saw me and whispered something to Dana who motioned for me to come forward to join them as head mourners and next of kin. I was touched.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Dana said quietly as I slid in next to Melody. ‘Nice to see a familiar face.’

  Melody snuggled between us but didn’t say anything. The poor kid must have been completely overwhelmed. ‘Paula, Lucy and Adrian send their love,’ I told her quietly.

  During the next few minutes, other mourners arrived and I wondered who they were. Then the music faded and the reverend went to the front of the chapel to start the service. The congregation fell silent and everyone looked to him. He began by saying that we were here to celebrate the life and mourn the passing of Amanda, and that while he hadn’t had the privilege of knowing her personally, he had spoken to those who had looked after her at the care home where she spent the last six months of her life. He gave her date of birth and said that Amanda hadn’t had an easy life but was at peace now and that God welcomed everyone to his flock. As we stood for the first hymn, Melody slid her hand into mine and I gave it a little reassuring squeeze. She was already holding Dana’s hand and she continued to hold our hands throughout the service. She was very brave; to be honest, I don’t think she fully understood what was going on. What child of her age would? It was the first funeral she’d been to. All she knew was that her mother was dead and this was a final goodbye. It was only when the reverend spoke the committal – ‘To everything there is a season … a time to be born and a time to die …’ – and the velvet curtains began to close around Amanda’s coffin that Melody realized the finality of what was happening.

  ‘Is Mummy going now?’ she quietly asked Dana.

  ‘Yes, love.’

  And her tears fell.

  Dana put her arm around her and held her close as the curtains drew together and the coffin was no longer in view. Organ music began softly in the background again, and presently the mourners stood and left the chapel. I sat with Melody and Dana until our tears subsided.

  ‘You’ve done very well,’ she told Melody, wiping her eyes.

  ‘Very,’ I agreed, wiping mine.

  We stood and slowly left.

  As often happens after a funeral, most of the mourners were gathered outside in small groups and talking quietly. Again I wondered who all these people were. The manager of the care home came over and said how sorry she was for Melody’s loss, but she had to leave now, as she was needed at work. I thanked her for all she’d done for Amanda. It wasn’t really my role, but there was no one else to thank her. She told Melody the occupational therapist sent her best wishes and was sorry to hear of her mother’s passing, which was very thoughtful. I supposed the staff at the care home would miss Amanda as they had Mr Wilson and Mr Bennett and the other residents who’d passed. As she left, a young man I guessed to be in his twenties came over with a middle-aged couple.

  ‘Are you Melody?’ he asked. Melody gave a small nod. ‘I’m Jamie, one of your brothers.’ He offered his hand for shaking.

  Dana recovered first. ‘Hello, lovely to meet you, Jamie. I’m Dana, Melody’s adoptive mother, and this is Cathy. She fostered Melody before she came to me.’

  ‘Great to meet you, Jamie,’ I said, and we shook hands.

  ‘These are my parents,’ he said, and introduced the couple with him – his adoptive parents. Melody was staring at Jamie, completely overwhelmed.

  ‘I’m sorry about your loss, darling,’ Jamie’s mother said to Melody. ‘You knew your birth mother. Jamie can’t remember her, he just has a photograph of her, but he wanted to come to her funeral to pay his respects.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Dana said. ‘I didn’t know Amanda, but Cathy did.’

  ‘I used to take Melody to see her at the care home,’ I told Jamie and his parents. ‘The last time I saw Amanda, in hospital, she was sleeping and very peaceful.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ Jamie said. ‘Thank you.’ He seemed a lovely lad. Clearly his parents had done a good job, but of course he and the other siblings had been spared the turmoil of Melody’s early years.

  ‘Have you met Beth and the others?’ he now asked us.

  ‘No,’ Dana said. ‘Are all Melody’s brothers and sisters here?’

  ‘Yes. Some of us have been in touch before, but we’ve never all been together like this. It’s amazing.’ Jamie looked around and signalled to the others to come over. The previously sombre mood of the funeral began to lift.

  ‘We’re going to make sure we stay in touch,’ Jamie’s mother said.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Dana agreed, and delved into her handbag for a pen and paper.

  ‘Here’s Beth,’ Jamie said as a young woman in her twenties came over together with her parents.

&nbs
p; ‘My little sister?’ she said to Melody. ‘Hi!’ And kissed Melody’s cheek. For the first time that day Melody smiled, so did I.

  ‘And this is Kim and Tom.’

  Before long all of Melody’s extended family – half-siblings and their parents; in fact, virtually everyone who’d been at the service – had gathered in a circle around us and were swapping telephone numbers. Melody was smiling, but she also looked a bit bewildered. As the youngest, she was enjoying all the attention. As we talked I learned that none of the other siblings had any memory of Amanda, but they all had at least one photograph of her.

  After a while I decide it was time for me to leave. I had a child to collect and this had turned into a family occasion, so I said goodbye and slipped away. The hum of conversation followed me to my car. I got in and sat looking through the windscreen at the family gathering outside the chapel, all talking happily. Tears filled my eyes, but not from sadness. It had taken over twenty years and Amanda’s funeral to bring her children together. I knew if she was looking down how pleased she’d be to see them reunited at last. Rest in peace, Amanda, your children are happy and well cared for. There is nothing for you to worry about now.

  For the latest on Melody and the other children in my books, please visit www.cathyglass.co.uk.

  Suggested topics for reading-group discussion

  At the start of the book, when Cathy is told the reasons for bringing Melody into care, she says she has ‘heard it all before’. Why do you think that drug and alcohol dependency, resulting in a child being neglected, is so prevalent now?

  Despite Melody’s anger and ‘feral’ behaviour, she quickly settles with Cathy and becomes an integrated member of her family. How is this achieved?

  What indications are there early on in the book that Amanda has been relying heavily on her daughter? As the story unfolds, what do we learn of their interdependent roles?

  Cathy makes a point of meeting the staff at Melody’s school soon after she arrives. Why do you think this is important?