Payback Ch. 03

2003

Angus and I had assumed that nothing would come of our application to become foster parents but three months after we applied, we received a phone call and, two hours later, a kid.

Rafael was a dark-skinned, orphaned, indigenous thirteen year old. He'd spent the first three years of his life in a town camp in central Australia and the next ten years in countless other places. I'd seen town camps when Angus and I had toured Australia and I knew they weren't ideal homes for adults, let alone children, so when I was told he might be returned to one in a few weeks if an agreeable family member could be found, I baulked a bit.

Dinner that night was awkward. I was overly anxious, Angus was still in shock that a real life human had been sent to live with us, and Raf ate and spoke as little as possible. He nodded quietly whenever we told him anything and did precisely as we asked not only that night, but in the following days.

We'd been told that kids acted out, and we'd expected this. We'd anticipated being yelled at, having things stolen, and violent behaviour, so the highly quiet, introverted teen surprised us. School had ended for the year and Christmas was approaching, and I'd noticed Raf didn't have much in the way of summer clothing - he didn't have much at all, actually - so on Saturday I drove him to a big shopping mall and announced we were going shopping.

'What are we buying Mrs G?' he asked.

'I thought we could get you some new clothes.'

He shook his head. 'I don't need any clothes.'

I was about to say 'yes you do' when I thought that maybe he'd interpret that as 'your mother neglected you before she died' and I didn't want to start making accusations.

'Most of us don't,' I said cheerfully. 'But it's nice to get something new, isn't it?'

'I don't take what I haven't earned.'

I was perplexed. 'But you're thirteen. You're supposed to buy hideous, horrible clothing, that I think looks terrible, and it's supposed to cost a lot, and I'm supposed to roll my eyes but hand the money over because I want you to like me.'

The closest thing I'd seen to a smile to date flickered over Raf's lips. Then it was gone as quickly as it had come.

'No?' I asked.

'No. I'm okay. You can get what you want, and I'll wait right here.'

I chewed my bottom lip thoughtfully. Angus only worked weekends when they were busy, and this week one of his colleagues had been sick, so the guys were working this morning to try and catch up. I was well and truly on my own with Raf, and I'm not going to lie; I felt completely out of my depth. I'd just turned twenty-eight and had never had to parent a child in my life. Now I had a thirteen year old foster kid who wouldn't do as I thought he would. What fucked up sort of game had I decided to play?

'What if I give you the money?' I suggested. 'I'm not saying you have to drag me around with you. We can meet back here in a few hours.'

'No, I really don't need anything. I don't mind if you want to go shopping. I can either wait here or I can go with you if you don't trust me.'

I was stumped as to what I should do or say. Raf sensed my indecision.

'Maybe you should go shopping,' he offered. 'I'll tag along.'

'That sounds like a good idea,' I agreed. 'Let me know if you want to stop and look at something.'

Money had been fairly tight when I was growing up, and my clothing was inevitably cheap and unfashionable. Not much had changed during my early years of marriage to Angus, but as time had progressed, and our wages had increased, life had become remarkably easier. We had a decent amount of money tucked away, two incomes, and the government was paying us a stipend to cover Raf's costs.

As Raf and I ambled through the stores, I made mention of the last point to my charge, and informed him that really, it wasn't my money that I would be spending on him. It was government money, and therefore he should have no problems accepting a few items of clothing.

He very almost wavered. Just like the smile I'd received an hour earlier, there was a hint of his true personality shining through before whatever protective mechanisms kicked into gear and he caught himself.

'No,' he said firmly. 'I don't need anything.'

There wasn't much that caught my eye, but I wanted a new lipstick and as I'm rubbish at finding shades that suit myself, we went into Myer so the sales ladies could help me. I always end up on the wrong level in Myer and this occasion was no different. We found ourselves in the men's section, a level up from cosmetics, but I knew where the escalators were and guided Raf over.

As we passed through the men's clothing I noticed Raf eyeing up racks of clothing. I was genuinely surprised at the items that caught his interest, because when I was his age I dressed terribly, and he seemed interested by items that were very well tailored.

'Would you like to have a look?' I asked.

Raf cracked.

'Maybe,' he said.

He walked back a few metres and hesitantly pulled a shirt from the rack.

Myer is famous for it's high prices and bad service, but for whatever reason, that day a particularly bright, chirpy and camp salesman was tidying up the clothing displays. When he saw Raf, he squinted at him, then dived into the row of shirts and pulled one out.

'You'll need an XS in this brand,' the salesman said. 'Try green, not blue. It'll suit your skin better.'

Raf stared at him wordlessly.

'Change rooms are over there,' the salesman added.

'Thanks,' I said. 'I'll take him over.'

The shirt fitted Raf perfectly, and the assistant had been correct; the green was fabulous on Raf. But the boy refused to buy it.

'Eighty dollars,' he said softly. 'No way. It won't even fit me in a year's time.'

'We can buy the small if you want. You'll get more wear out of it.'

He shook his head. 'We should go, Mrs G. I don't need any clothing.'

He put the shirt back on the 'returns' rack. I didn't want to force the issue so I left it hanging there forlornly.

We went downstairs to the cosmetics counters, and I bought my lipstick. Afterwards, Raf and I went to the food court for lunch. I asked him if he wanted a kebab, but he said 'no' and asked for three dollars.

'You can't buy lunch for three dollars,' I argued.

'Yes I can.'

He proved me wrong, returning ten minutes later with a can of Coke he'd bought from one vendor and two potato scallops he'd bought from another.

It was always the cheapest thing for him. Always the least effort, the least trouble. It was as if he were going out of his way to not cause a fuss. I'd done the same when I was younger, but not to the extent that he did.

I mulled it over and when we were driving home I told him that Angus and I would never make him leave, if that was what he was worried about. As long as he wanted to live with us, he had a home with us.

Raf stared out the window. 'I don't take things I can't afford,' he said. 'There's always a price to pay. The less I take, the less debt I have.'

'There's no debt,' I argued. 'As I said; the money is coming from the government. It's meant to be spent on you.'

'But what if later I cost you more money? I'll have cost you money. And that will be a debt. Better for you to save the money up.'

'Raf, that's not how it works.'

There was silence.

'Raf?'

He turned to me as we drove into the driveway. 'I don't want a hand out from a white lady,' he said.

'Would you take one from my husband?'

'No. Your husband's basically white these days. He's nothing like me, nothing at all.'

There was anger in his voice, resentment and anger. I felt hopeless and defensive. I wanted to scream 'fine then! Go live somewhere else!' but I knew doing so would be catastrophic, so I kept my mouth shut and tried not to get angry. Other foster parents had to deal with a lot worse. This was nothing.

I parked the car and we got out.

'You'll never understand,' he said bitterly. 'Never. And you need to be careful, because if you keep acting like you do, other kids will take advantage of you. You need to wise up.'

He went straight to his room, shut the door and went to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~

Raf left a month later. I remember feeling relieved when he left. I didn't miss him, and I told myself that he'd be okay; he wouldn't have been returned to one of the town camps that I'd seen, but a better one, one where he would be safe.

~~~~~~~~~

2017

I'd assumed our kids would either ignore each other or clash, but they were all too busy jostling over who got to hold the popcorn to do either. In the end, Pearl held the popcorn, nine year old Will held a bucket of Fanta and seven year old Noah took control of the skittles. We sat in a row; Ciaran, Will, Noah, Pearl and myself.

Noah was not only intellectually delayed, but socially delayed. I'd assumed he'd be like my foster child Beau had ben; slow but kind, easily amused and well meaning, but Noah was quickly frustrated, didn't understand jokes, and he talked throughout the movie until Ciaran conceded defeat and took him outside.

Pearl and Will sat through the movie, sharing snacks and laughing. I'd assumed Noah and Will would stick together, or perhaps Noah and Pearl would be friendly, so it surprised me that Will and Pearl were so amicable.

As we walked out of the cinema, Pearl told Will that her real mother was in jail.

'My mother's in New Zealand,' Will said.

'Is that like jail?' Pearl asked.

'No, but it's cold, even in summer. She's going to come back soon. She'll stay with us until she finds a job.'

That was news to me. Ciaran certainly hadn't mentioned anything about Symantha returning to Australia, and he definitely hadn't told me she'd be staying with him. I wondered if perhaps Will had misinterpreted something, and made a mental note to ask Ciaran about it later.

Unfortunately I didn't get the opportunity to ask Ciaran. Noah pitched a fit during lunch and when he started hitting his father, Will sighed and said 'he won't stop, and soon we'll have to go home' in a tone of voice that suggested that that was precisely what was going to happen.

Sure enough, Noah continued to carry on. People stared at us, and made the sort of comments that they like to make in order to feel superior about themselves. I worked in special education, I knew there was nothing Ciaran could do but remove Noah from the situation, so when Ciaran again waved the white flag on a normal family outing, I told him not to worry. I was disappointed but not angry.

'You should come to our house next time,' Will told Pearl. 'We have a pool, and you don't need to leave if Noah decides to be stupid.'

'You have a pool?' Pearl asked.

'Yeah, and it's got a shallow end, too, so if you can't swim, you won't drown.'

'I'm a very good swimmer,' Pearl boasted.

'Cool,' Will said with a grin. 'I'll race you.'

'I'll race you now,' Pearl said, with the enthusiasm of a child who doesn't see a problem with a sprint race through a fast food restaurant.

I picked her up before she could take a step, not wanting to give the already-annoyed patrons of the food court anything else to glare at us about.

Ciaran and I said our good-byes, and I took Pearl out to the car. No sooner had I buckled Pearl in than she asked when we were going to go swimming 'with Will'.

'Maybe some other time,' I replied vaguely, because I was well familiar with the 100% perfect recall of children when it came to promises about toys and social engagements. 'We'll see.'

'That means never,' Pearl argued.

'No, it means maybe,' I replied.

Pearl humphed and sank into her car seat.

I texted Ciaran that night to thank him for the day, and perhaps get a gauge on how appropriate it would be to ask what was going on with his ex-girlfriend. I received a short, abrupt message in response 'Noah's still carrying on like a fucking pork chop. Sorry. Love you.'

Over dinner Pearl again raised the possibility of going swimming at Ciaran's house, but I shushed her and changed the subject. I didn't know what sort of relationship Ciaran might want to have with Symantha, and until I knew for sure, I didn't want to go making promises to Pearl about catch-ups.

~~~~~~~

2004 - 2008

Raf was followed by two more short term placements; the first, a single eleven year old boy and the second, two male siblings, eight and fourteen years of age.

I'd thought I might start to like being a foster carer, but instead I began to loathe it. I hated having strange children invade my personal space. I hated having to rush around in the mornings getting them ready for school. I hated having to deal with often incredibly challenging behaviour, and most of all, I hated having to take kids, who I was finally moulding into some reasonable shape, to visits with their biological families. Every goddamn visit would set the kids back ten paces, and it was always me who had to pick up the pieces.

My only escape was work, but in early 2006, Peter sold the print shop to a large chain and I was politely told by the new owners that I 'didn't fit their preferred employee profile'. I had absolutely no idea what they meant by that, but it was enough to have me in tears, and I was told I could finish up there and then.

Angus had changed jobs and was no longer with Suzuki, and I didn't know his new employers well enough to feel comfortable showing up unannounced to seek sympathy, so instead I drove home. The house was mercifully empty; our last foster placement having left a few weeks ago, and I went to my bedroom and sobbed for a few hours.

The thing about crying is that - for me, at least - it's often productive. It forces me to look at what's going right and wrong in my life. More than once, understanding how much something has been upsetting me has been the catalyst for change.

That was what happened that afternoon. I realised I didn't want to be a foster parent any more. It was emotionally stressful, and now that I would be looking for a new job, I didn't need any other challenges thrown my way.

When Angus arrived home at four o'clock that afternoon I burst into fresh tears - I was scared he'd be disappointed in me - and told him I'd lost my job.

'I'm so sorry,' I wept. 'They said I didn't fit their preferred employee profile.'

'You didn't fit their what?'

'Preferred employee profile,' I hiccupped.

Angus laughed and pulled me into a hug. 'Don't worry Hez, they obviously don't know a thing about you or how wonderful you are.' He kissed the top of my head. 'Don't cry.'

'And also, I don't want to be a foster carer anymore.'

'Why do you say that? Because you're upset?'

'No. Well, 'yes'. I don't enjoy it. I hate it. I feel bad, but I really don't like looking after other people's kids.'

'Okay, well how about we get through Beau and then we'll call it quits?' he suggested.

'Beau?'

'Yeah. Didn't the social worker call you?'

I shook my head. 'No. Is there another one coming?'

'Yeah, tonight. They said about six o'clock they'd be here.'

My heart sank at the thought of another teen or pre-teen Aboriginal boy, who I'd have nothing in common with, and who would only hinder my job-hunting mission.

'They never stay long,' Angus reassured me. 'He'll probably move on in a few weeks or months and that'll be it.'

I nodded. 'Okay. I can do one more. What did they tell you about him? I'm guessing he's ten to fourteen, Aboriginal, and has emotional issues?'

'Yeah, that's what they like to give us, isn't it?' Angus agreed. 'They said he's got moderate intellectual problems but he's a nice kid. He's one of six kids, but the rest will be staying with his Mum. She's escaping a domestic violence situation and she and the social workers have agreed that it's best that Beau goes into respite care for a while. He needs a lot of help. Plus, his Mum's family is related to my Mum's family, so that's why they asked us.'

I leant my head into my husband's chest and sighed tiredly. If Angus was related to this child, then there was definitely no backing out. My husband's family obligations were a lot more intense than mine.

'Maybe it's a good thing I'm unemployed,' I said. 'I won't be stressed about getting a kid off to school and then getting to work on time.'

Angus ruffled my hair. 'You'll be fine. I'll help you.'

Angus always vowed to help me, but the reality was that most of the work fell to me. I was the one filling in forms, attending meetings and appointments, making lunches, washing uniforms, buying shoes, and trying to get them to do their homework.

My husband tried, and he did a lot of 'fun stuff' with the kids, but I always seemed to get the grunt work, and I was always the ones the kids hit out at. Not once had anyone called Angus a black bastard, but I'd been called a white bitch on more occasions than I cared to remember. Then there were all of the nasty comments I'd received from the foster children's family members. Some of those insults and epithets still rang in my ears.

'I hate this,' I whispered savagely. 'I can't believe people find this rewarding. It's like hell on earth.'

'Just one more,' Angus reminded me.

'I know.'

Two hours later, Beau, his mother and the social worker arrived. It wasn't usual process for the biological parent to come, but because this was respite, and because Angus had agreed to her coming around, here she was.

I can't really remember my first impressions of Beau. I don't think I paid much attention to either him or his mother or the social worker, because I was utterly convinced that he'd leave in a few weeks and Angus and I would return to a quiet, pleasant, childfree life. I'd find a new job, and maybe sometime in the next year or two my husband and I would ride around Australia again. But not on the Hayabusa, I promised myself. I wouldn't be silly enough to sit on a sports bike with a twenty kilo backpack on my back for another three months.

I was still trying to figure out what sort of motorcycle I should convince Angus to buy when suddenly everyone left and it was just Beau, Angus and I.

Beau suddenly seemed incredibly anxious.

Oh God, I thought. What the fuck do we do? This part never got easier. Those first few hours after a child had been deposited at our place were always fraught with tension.

'Want to go for a ride on the back of my motorbike?' Angus asked.

Beau perked up. 'You have a motorbike?' he asked.

~~~~~~~~~

Beau's mum got herself sorted out and settled down about six months after he came to live with us. We frequently saw her and Beau's siblings, and Beau would head over to their place on a fairly regular basis to spend the night or weekend, but he remained in our care as a matter of mutual convenience. His living with us wasn't seen by their community as a slight to the mother, but as a convenient arrangement in which extended family were helping raise a child, and as our infertility was now well known, Beau was viewed as something of a gift.

My family didn't understand, and viewed Beau's mother as inherently lacking, unfeeling and downright lazy, but she wasn't anything of the sort. Indigenous culture was different to ours, and though customs had changed and altered and been amended since colonisation, the principles of extended families and child-rearing being everyone's duty, remained.

Beau was assessed as being moderately intellectually delayed, but right from the beginning I felt that he wasn't half as impaired as everyone seemed to believe he was, and I set about proving myself right and them wrong. I'm not often stubborn, but with this I was. I had plenty of time on my hands and Beau was such a nice kid it was easy to want to help him. He was attending a special school, but his academic work soon progressed above and beyond what anyone had expected, and fresh testing suggested he was probably more mildly than moderately delayed. He'd need assistance throughout his life, but not to the extent that had been predicted in his younger years.