Cut (10 page)

‘It’s not for me,’ I said quickly, ‘but someone I know.’ Thanking her, I took the book to be checked out and then headed for home.

Once I had given Adrian his lunch and settled him for his nap, I phoned the social services and asked to speak to Dawn’s social worker. A colleague answered and said that Ruth was on annual leave and wouldn’t be back for another two weeks. I asked if there was anyone else I could speak to who might know Dawn’s case. ‘Not really,’ the woman said. ‘If it’s an emergency you can speak to the duty social worker, but otherwise it’s best to wait until Ruth returns.’ I didn’t think it constituted an emergency, so I left a message to ask that Ruth phone me on her return.

While Adrian slept, I read the book. It was really aimed at therapists working with adolescents who self-harmed and was full of psychologist’s jargon. However, it contained a lot of in-depth information, and cited research based on case studies of young people who had deliberately hurt themselves. What I read in no way lightened my concerns: it was truly horrendous.

There were black-and-white photographs of the injuries that adolescents (and it seemed to be mainly teenagers who self-harmed) had inflicted on their arms, legs and sometimes their bodies, some of which had required hospitalisation. I quickly learned that self-harmers, or ‘cutters’ as they are colloquially referred to, are very good at hiding their injuries, and the cutting is usually a secret activity. Cutting was described as a ‘coping mechanism’, born of anger and self-loathing, and was often a punishment for how the young person perceived themselves. In many cases the cutting continued for years undiscovered and, even once diagnosed, the cutting often continued, despite therapy. Reasons why young people harmed themselves included: lack of love; physical, sexual and emotional abuse; acute bullying; low self-esteem; and depression. ‘Cutting makes the blood take away the bad feelings,’ one young person was quoted as saying. ‘I feel so guilty, I punish myself,’ another admitted. The author added that if someone was feeling ‘numb’, then the pain of cutting could make them feel ‘alive’. In some cases the cutting escalated and led to death – intentional or otherwise. Cutting was not simply a failed suicide bid, though, the book explained: it was an act in itself, although some professionals viewed it as a cry for help. I learned that cutting wasn’t the only means by which self-harmers hurt themselves: they also took overdoses; punched themselves; threw themselves against walls; pulled out their hair and eyelashes; burnt, scratched, picked and tore at their skin – in fact anything that vented punishment or gave relief from their inner turmoil.

It was very harrowing reading, and the general consensus of opinion among the psychologists was that self-harmers were disturbed and could be suffering from any number of psychological illnesses. However, nowhere did I read about anyone re-enacting their cutting while sleepwalking, as Dawn had done, and I’d no idea if this was significant or not.

When Dawn returned from school I asked her, as I always did, if she’d had a good day. She said she had, although she added that she’d been so tired she had nearly fallen asleep in the English lesson. I said she’d have to have an early night. I then said I’d like to talk to her before she started on her homework. She fetched a drink from the kitchen, as she usually did on returning home, and joined me in the lounge. During the afternoon I had carefully thought about what I was going to say and had come up with a way of broaching the subject without actually having to tell Dawn of her disturbed behaviour.

‘What is it?’ she asked sipping her milk. ‘You look worried. Have I done something wrong?’

I smiled. ‘No, Dawn, you haven’t done anything wrong, but I am worried. Come and sit down.’ I patted the sofa and she sat beside me. ‘John and I are both worried about something your mother said when we all met the other evening.’

‘Oh, her,’ she said dismissively. ‘You don’t want to believe what she says. She doesn’t like me and never has time for me. In fact she’d rather I wasn’t around at all.’

I was taken aback to hear Dawn say that, although it appeared to be the truth. ‘I understand, love, but what I want to talk to you about is not something your mother made up, but the scarring on your arms. I’m very worried that you felt the need to hurt yourself, and I was wondering if you would like to talk to someone who may be able to help. Someone called a counsellor, who is trained and used to listening to people who have problems, and can give advice.’

‘I’m not cutting now,’ Dawn put in quickly.

I looked at her. ‘No, but you must have been very upset and hurting inside to want to harm yourself like that. And some of the scars are quite recent, aren’t they?’

‘But I haven’t done it here,’ she said defensively.

‘I know, love. But to have done it at all makes me think you were very upset about something, and might still be.’

She glanced away, and absently rubbed the sleeve of the jumper on her scarred arm, as though remembering.

‘You know you can always talk to me, Dawn, but sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone outside the family. Someone who knows about these things, who has experience in dealing with other people who have self-harmed and can offer help. It would mean going to see the doctor, but I could come with you, and we would need the consent of your social worker or mother.’

She stopped rubbing her arm. ‘But I’m OK now, aren’t I? I mean I’m not doing it now, and if I don’t do it again I don’t have to go to the doctor, do I?’ She was making it sound like a penance.

‘No, love, and you don’t
have
to go at all if you don’t want to. I just thought it might help to talk to someone if you have problems that you can’t tell me. John and I care for you and it makes me sad to think that you might be hurting and wanting to punish yourself.’

The word ‘punish’ seemed to register with Dawn and she sat upright and looked at me. ‘I haven’t done wrong,’ she said again, defensively. ‘And I won’t, not here.’

I met her gaze. ‘It’s not that you’ve done anything wrong, love. It’s more that it’s worrying.’ I paused, realising I wasn’t getting very far. ‘Well, it’s obviously your decision whether you see the doctor or not, but will you think about it? I’m sure it could help.’

She nodded. ‘OK, Cathy, I’ll think about it. Can I go and do my homework now.’

‘Of course.’ I hesitated again. ‘And Dawn, it’s only you I’m thinking of. I want you to be happy. I don’t have an ulterior motive.’ For something in her manner suggested she thought I could be part of a conspiracy that was ganging up against her.

‘OK,’ she said amicably, and, standing, left the room.

I leant back on the sofa and sighed. I felt I had handled it all wrongly. Not only was Dawn refusing to go to the doctor but it seemed I had unintentionally put her on the defensive. But at least I had made her aware that help was available if she felt she needed it.

That evening after Dawn had gone to bed I told John about my day: what the doctor had said, my visit to the library, phoning the social worker and leaving a message, and my non-productive talk with Dawn. I showed him the library book on self-harming, and pointed out some of the relevant sections. John grimaced as he read, and looked at the photographs of lacerated arms, legs, and bodies; as shocked as I had been. By the time we had finished discussing what we had learned his concerns for Dawn had deepened considerably, as had mine.

Dawn slept soundly that night, and so too did John and I; all three of us were exhausted from the previous night. The following morning after John had gone to work and Dawn had left for school, and with my mood somewhat lighter after a good night’s sleep, I set about some overdue housework. It was another beautiful April day and I had the French windows open in the lounge; I was busy vacuuming and dusting the corners that weren’t included in the usual weekly clean. Adrian was on the carpet in the centre of the room and practising getting into a crawling position. I thought it wouldn’t be long before he was off, and then I’d have to move from the floor everything that might topple over if he grabbed it, like the large leafy plants he’d been eyeing for ages. The phone rang, and keeping an eye on Adrian, I picked up the extension on the corner unit.

‘Mrs Glass?’ a female voice asked.

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s the school secretary at St James’s. Dawn’s Head of Year has asked me to phone you. Dawn isn’t in school and we were wondering if she was ill?’

My heart fell. ‘No, she isn’t ill. And she left for school this morning at the normal time.’

‘Well, she hasn’t arrived. I take it you don’t know where she is?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘I’ll have to mark it as an unauthorised absence. Hopefully she’ll be in tomorrow.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank you for telling me.’ And I hung up.

I stood still, staring over the half-cleaned room, the previous lightness in my mood gone. On top of the worry about all Dawn’s other behaviour I now had the worry of her truanting. It was only 10 a.m. and the hours to when Dawn would reappear at the end of the school day stretched before me with gnawing anxiety. I had no way of contacting her or of knowing where she was, and with her social worker away I couldn’t even tell her. There was little to be gained from phoning John at work – he had enough to contend with, without this. I guessed there was a chance Dawn had gone to her mother’s, as she had done before, although why she sought refuge with her when they had such a low opinion of each other, I didn’t understand. I didn’t have Barbara’s telephone number, so I couldn’t phone her to check.

Apart from the worry of not knowing where Dawn was, or what she was up to, I felt she had badly let me down. I had placed my trust in her and she had reassured me she wouldn’t play truant again. Indeed she had been quite settled with her new friend, Natasha. I looked at Adrian, still on his stomach on the carpet, flapping his arm and legs excitedly, when suddenly I had a thought – one which I immediately chided myself for thinking, but didn’t reject. Was there an address book or diary of Dawn’s in her room? Or even a scrap of paper that would give me some clue as to where she had gone? I never normally went into Dawn’s room when she wasn’t there: I recognised that at her age she needed and deserved privacy. But if there was something there, some clue to her whereabouts, I could get in the car and go and find her. I felt her truanting, on top of everything else, could well be another cry for help. She knew that the school would phone me when she didn’t arrive and that she would be found out. Was she testing me? Testing the boundaries to see if I cared? If I went to the trouble of finding her it could be proof to her that I worried, and cared for her very much.

With this in mind I scooped Adrian up from the floor and went upstairs. Opening Dawn’s bedroom door, I went in, and what greeted me was certainly a cry for help, but not in any way I had anticipated. I gasped and stared in horror as my knees went weak. The pillow on Dawn’s bed was caked in bright red blood.

Chapter Twelve

Missing Persons

I
stood motionless just inside the room with Adrian in my arms, staring in horror and disbelief. My stomach churned and panic gripped me. I mechanically took a few steps further into the room and gradually approached the bed. My thoughts whirled, and I swallowed hard, not knowing what else I might find. Taking hold of the edge of the duvet, I slowly drew it back. To my small relief the rest of the bed was empty and unstained, but the blood on the pillowcase was fresh.

There was no doubt in my mind that it had come from Dawn cutting herself. There was no other explanation. But when? And why? It hadn’t been there this morning when I’d woken her. ‘My God!’ I said out loud, as I realised the implications. Dawn must have cut herself after breakfast, when she’d come up to get ready for school. But she’d come down perfectly normal and had said a cheery goodbye; I’d seen her off at the door. ‘Dear God,’ I said again, and my head spun. She’d been wearing her long-sleeved school jumper when she’d left, so her arm hadn’t been visible. Had she bandaged it? Or was the cut still seeping? How big was the cut? Did it need stitches? Should she be at the hospital?

I stood still, appalled and completely overwhelmed. Dawn had eaten her breakfast with Adrian and me, then come upstairs, ostensibly to do her teeth and collect her school books, and had cut herself! With what? I stared around the room for any object that she could have used, but there was nothing – nothing visible that was sharp enough for her to have used. Then, with another stab of horror, I wondered if I was to blame. Had my raising the subject of her scars and her cutting yesterday ppolice and report Dawnroduced this? I thought it might have done, and I could have wept. Possibly because of my clumsy attempts at trying to talk to her, Dawn was out there somewhere, cut and bleeding.

I hurried out of her bedroom and, taking hold of the handrail, went unsteadily downstairs. I continued through to the lounge where, sitting Adrian on the floor with his toys, I picked up the phone. At the same time I grabbed my address book for the social services number.

‘I want to speak to the duty social worker,’ I said in an uneven voice as the woman answered the switchboard.

‘In connection with what?’

‘The child I’m fostering – Dawn Jennings.’

‘Your name?’

‘Cathy Glass.’

There was a click; then her voice again. ‘The line’s busy. Will you hold?’

‘Yes, unless there is someone else I can talk to. It’s an emergency.’

‘What sort of emergency?’

‘Dawn has vanished, and I’ve found blood on her pillowcase. I think she has harmed herself.’

There was another pause. ‘Who’s her social worker?’

‘Ruth Peters, but she’s away.’

‘How old is the girl?’

‘Thirteen.’

‘You need to speak to the duty social worker. I’ll put you through when he’s finished his present call.’

The line went dead and I waited. My knuckles clenched hard and white around the receiver as I thought of Dawn, out there, hurting and bleeding because of what I’d said. How I wished I’d left the subject alone!

When the duty social worker came on the line, my voice trembled, and I could barely get out what I had to say.

‘She’s only thirteen, and she’s cut herself, and I don’t know where she is. She left for school, but didn’t arrive, and I’ve found blood all over her pillow.’

‘The girl’s name?’ he asked, interrupting my ramblings.

‘Dawn Jennings.’

‘Has this happened before?’

‘No – well, yes. I mean she’s truanted before, and she’s cut herself, but not since she has been with me.’

‘And how long has she been with you?’

I thought. ‘Three months.’

‘And do you have any idea where she might be? Missing teenagers often return to the same place.’

‘She might have gone to her mother’s. She went there when she truanted before. But her mother works, and I don’t have her number.’

‘It’ll be on our records. Was Dawn upset when she left you this morning?’

‘No. Not at all.’ I took a deep breath and swallowed hard, fighting back the tears. ‘She seemed perfectly calm. I’d no idea she’d cut herself until I went to her room a few minutes ago.’

There was a pause. Although the duty social worker was obviously taking my concerns seriously, there wasn’t the urgency or panic in his voice that there was in mine; it was as though he was used to dealing with missing teenagers, only of course this wasn’t simply a missing teenager but one who had harmed herself and could do so again.

‘OK,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’ll see if I can find the case notes, and call Dawn’s mother. I’ll get her to phone you if Dawn is there and put your mind at rest. If Dawn hasn’t returned by the end of school, give her a couple of hours and then do a missing persons.’

‘Missing persons?’ I asked, not understanding what he meant and assuming it was a social services procedure.

‘Yes, with the police. If Dawn doesn’t return this evening and mum hasn’t called you to say she is with her, you will have to phone the police and report Dawn missing. But phone this number first, and say you are about to do a missing persons. The police will ask you if the social services have been informed.’

‘I see,’ I said, totally unfamiliar with the procedure, and the words ‘police’ and ‘missing person’ adding to my anxiety. ‘And you’ll ask Dawn’s mother to phone me straightaway if she is there?”

‘Yes, I will.’

I replaced the receiver and sat for a moment, staring into space. How long would it take the duty social worker to find Dawn’s case notes and Barbara’s telephone number, and then call her? Fifteen minutes? Half an hour? It couldn’t take longer than that, surely? Aware I wouldn’t hear the phone ringing with the vacuum cleaner on, I unplugged it, and slowly wound up the lead. I no longer had any enthusiasm for cleaning; in fact I had no enthusiasm for anything, beyond knowing Dawn was safe. I returned the vacuum cleaner and dusters to the kitchen and then sat on the floor

with Adrian in the lounge. Deep in thought, I vaguely kept him amused with his toys. Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty, and the phone didn’t ring. I wondered if that was because the duty social worker was still trying to find Dawn’s case notes or if her mother wasn’t at home; or even if he’d phoned Barbara and Dawn wasn’t there. I wished I had asked him to phone me whatever the outcome – not knowing anything and being impotent to do anything was worse than knowing something bad.

An hour passed and I couldn’t stand it any longer. I phoned the social services again and asked for the duty social worker. I gave my name again to the woman on the switchboard, and then again to the duty social worker, who recognised me.

‘Mrs Jennings isn’t at home,’ he said. ‘I’ll try her again later.’

I thanked him and hung up. There was nothing else I could do but wait. John phoned at lunchtime to ask if I was going into town because he’d left a suit at the dry cleaner’s and wanted me to collect it. I told him what had happened and he was obviously very concerned – for Dawn and me. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked more than once. ‘Whatever made her do it?’

I now said that I thought I could have caused it by raising the subject. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘Of course not. You were trying to help her, and we know she’s done it before.’ He paused. ‘Cathy, I really think we need to consider our options and whether we can realistically continue to look after Dawn. I have big doubts after this. We’ve had nothing but worry since she came to live with us. I know it’s not her fault, but we need to think about the effect all this is having on us, as a family, and you in particular.’

‘I’m all right,’ I said lamely.

John was unconvinced. ‘We’ll talk about it later. I’ll see you at the usual time, and try not to worry. Dawn’s done this before and survived. I’m sure she’ll be all right. Give my love to Adrian.’

‘I will.’

We said goodbye and I hung up. Although John was only voicing his concern and trying to reassure me, it didn’t help. I was aware that Dawn had done it before – she had the scars to prove it. But it didn’t mean she now suffered less; indeed each new cut seemed to make it worse and highlight her continuing inner turmoil and desperate need for help. Furthermore, she hadn’t been in my care when she’d cut before, and I now felt responsible for her and negligent in allowing it to happen.

The afternoon passed; I didn’t leave the house. I busied myself, mainly in looking after Adrian, while listening, hoping, that the phone would ring with some news. It rang once, just before two o’clock, and I leapt to answer it. But it was a double glazing salesman cold-calling for business, and I quickly got rid of him, wanting the line free. Three o’clock approached and my sprits began to lift slightly. I was hoping that Dawn might return home at the end of the school day, as she had done before when she’d played truant. But my hope was tempered by the knowledge that this time Dawn had cut herself and left the evidence for me to see.

At 3.30 p.m., with Adrian in my arms, I went through to the front room and stood behind the net curtains, where I would see the first sign of Dawn’s approach. I waited, willing her to appear. Her usual coming-home time of 3.45 p.m. came and went; then the hands of the clock settled on four. I reminded myself that on a couple of occasions when the buses had been running late she had arrived just after 4.00 p.m. I wandered around the room, up and down the hall, and then returned to the window, but there was still no sign of Dawn.

At five o’clock I went through to the kitchen and began preparing dinner – Adrian would be hungry, even if I wasn’t. By 5.30 p.m. I was forced to admit that Dawn wasn’t coming home and I was sick with worry. I made one last trip to the front room window, hoping beyond hope that I would see her coming down the street, but she wasn’t there. She was now nearly two hours late, and following the duty social worker’s instructions, I phoned the social services.

‘Out of hours response,’ a female voice said tritely, and I said I needed to speak to the duty social worker. It was a different person on duty to the one I had spoken to previously, and I had to explain all over again what had happened, and that I’d been told to phone before I reported Dawn missing to the police. He asked me why Dawn had come into care and if she’d gone missing before. I repeated what little I knew.

‘It’s still early for doing a missing persons,’ he said. ‘We usually wait for at least two hours, and it’s not dark yet. The police receive a lot of calls about missing teenagers, and the kids usually turn up at home later.’

‘But she’s never gone missing here before and she’s hurt!’ I blurted, frustrated, and losing patience with all the worry.

‘No, but from what you’ve said, she often went missing when she was with her parents.’

‘Yes, but what about the blood? She’s cut herself and might need first aid.’

‘Look, I’ll log this call, so you needn’t phone here again. Give it until six thirty; then if she still hasn’t shown, phone the police and do the missing persons. If she does turn up in the meantime, ring this number so I can take it off the system.’

‘Right,’ I said, and curtly thanking him, hung up. Bloody system! I thought. He hadn’t shown a shred of sympathy, and Dawn had appeared to be just another inconvenient statistic.

I gave Adrian his dinner, and plated up John’s and left it in the oven. I had no appetite, and made do with a mug of tea and a biscuit. If Dawn did appear I could eat with her later, and I entertained the briefest picture of Dawn and me sitting down to dinner and talking. I gave Adrian his bath and got him into his pyjamas; then I returned to the lounge with him and waited. At exactly 6.30 p.m. I picked up the phone ready to call the police, then realised I didn’t know the number. Missing person wasn’t really a 999 call, I thought, so returning the phone to its cradle, I searched the directory until I found the number of our local police station. My head was thumping and I had a pain across my forehead from all the worry and anxiety. With the phone directory open on my lap, and Adrian on the sofa beside me, I keyed in the numbers. I was surprised and somewhat dismayed to hear a recorded announcement telling me I was being held in a queuing system and would be connected to an officer as soon as one was available. ‘Shit,’ I said out loud, feeling the tears well in my eyes. Adrian looked at me.

Ten minutes later I was finally speaking to a police officer. I had just told him I needed to report someone missing when I heard the front door open as John came in from work. ‘Sorry,’ I said to the officer, ‘can you hold on a minute.’ I put down the phone, picked up Adrian, and went down the hall. ‘Can you look after him?’ I said bluntly, and completely stressed out. ‘I’m on the phone to the police. Dawn hasn’t returned.’ Before John had time to take off his coat, I’d dumped Adrian in his arms. ‘Your dinner is in the oven,’ I called before I retrieved the phone.

‘Sorry,’ I said again to the police officer. ‘You asked for my name.’

‘Yes,’ he said patiently.

I gave it to him; then he asked for our address and telephone number. There was a pause while he wrote.

‘And who is it that is missing?’

‘Our foster daughter, Dawn Jennings.’

Another pause. ‘Her date of birth please.’

I had to think. ‘She’s thirteen. Her birthday is the sixth of January.’ I left him to calculate the year for it was more than my brain was capable of at that point, but I felt guilty for not knowing it off by heart as I obviously knew Adrian’s.

‘And she’s your foster child?’ he confirmed.

‘Yes.’

‘Have you told her social worker?’

‘I’ve told the duty social worker. Dawn’s social worker in on holiday.’

‘Aren’t they always?’ he said dryly. ‘And her social worker’s name?’

‘Ruth Peters.’

Another pause. ‘When was the last time you saw Dawn?’

‘This morning at eight fifteen.’

He asked for the circumstances of her leaving the house and I explained that she’d left to go to school but hadn’t arrived, and how I had gone to her room and found the blood. I told him about the scars on her arm where she had previously cut herself, and what I knew of her past. He then asked for a description of Dawn and what she was wearing.