Forgetting Foster (13 page)

‘Where am I?'

‘Day care, Dad,' Foster said deliberately. Mum hated the Day Program being called day care. Foster had heard Aunty calling it day care and it had started a fight with Mum. Aunty said she was just trying to be funny. Aunty hadn't been invited to come with them today.

‘It's
not
day care,' Mum said.

‘Well, no,' Dad replied. ‘Fossie's too old for day care. Isn't he? How old are you, Fossie?'

‘Not my day care, Dad. Yours.'

‘Fossie!' Mum performed an almost perfect pirouette in an effort to tell Foster off face-to-face but he skulked behind Dad avoiding her eyes. He knew he had her because she was dressed like she was coping again and wouldn't want to give that up.

Sophie was already leading them towards the big glass doors. They opened automatically onto a large
room with a long reception desk on one side. The desk had flowers and pamphlets on it and a sign framed like a picture which read
Welcome. This desk is temporarily unattended.
Dad read it out loud.

‘Yahtzee,' he said.

‘Yes, we don't have to bother about that,' Sophie said. ‘Come through.'

Further on there was another set of doors, but these ones didn't open automatically. There was a keypad on the wall next to them. Sophie pressed some of the buttons and they opened with a swoosh. Foster could immediately smell that same sharp, lemony abrasive cleaner Mum used at home on the sinks. Somehow it made him feel more comfortable. As soon as they were through the doors, Sophie pressed another button and they swooshed shut.

‘Why is the door locked like that?' Foster asked.

‘We have security here,' Sophie said. ‘Just so staff can enjoy time with the clients without having to constantly head count.' She finished off with a laugh. Clearly she was trying to be funny. Mum hadn't laughed yet.

They went down a long, wide corridor with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over atrium gardens with benches and ponds. There were rooms
to the right. Some had beds in them. But they didn't stop until they got to another set of double doors at the end of the hall. This one had a sign on it that read
Day Program
. Foster had been right about the capital letters.

Inside was a calm busyness. Like the rallying point for school fire alarms but with old people. Really old people. Most people were doing things, or being encouraged to do things. Jigsaws, painting, board games, Yahtzee. Dad was good at Yahtzee. Foster tugged on Dad's sleeve and pointed.

Dad pulled his arm away from Foster and took a step towards Mum.

‘When are we going home?' he asked.

Sophie was talking, had been talking continuously, about what they did and other services they offered. There was counselling for clients and their caregivers, cooked lunch, activities designed to both work with and improve upon the skills and cognitive abilities of each client. Also, and perhaps most importantly, the opportunity to meet new people and keep up social skills that can sometimes be lost in the more isolated care situations. All of this as they wandered about the room peering over shoulders and smiling at strangers. Foster noticed the clients didn't smile much. He also
noticed Mum wasn't smiling much. Not real smiling anyway. Just a lip twitch when a staff member smiled at her. The memory of a response.

‘Why do you call them clients?' Foster asked. Mum cast an eye at him. She could really cast, too. Foster felt the hook of it. He was embarrassing her.

‘Well, a client is a person who needs a service that we provide,' Sophie said.

‘I know what a client is,' Foster said. ‘My dad has clients and they don't look like this.'

‘Foster!' Mum said.

‘When are we going home?' Dad asked again. ‘I have clients to call.'

‘Well,' Sophie continued. ‘There are all sorts of clients and all sorts of services. For example, your dad can come here for just a couple of hours to watch a movie or he can come for the day and do all sorts of different things. Whatever he wants.'

‘Or he doesn't have to come here at all. He can stay at home with us,' Foster said.

‘Oh, Fossie, please stop,' Mum said.

‘It's all right,' Sophie said reassuringly to Mum. ‘It's a huge adjustment and no decision has to be made right away. We just want to provide you with options and support.'

‘I appreciate it,' Mum said. ‘I really do. It's a lot, you know? I'd like to bring my sister-in-law to have a look if that's okay?'

Foster was stunned. He looked up at Mum and could see she was quite sincere. But she hated Aunty. They were always fighting. Aunty was always upsetting Mum and leaving the house annoyed and muttering. He couldn't explain it, but he felt like he was losing a bit of footing.

‘Of course that's okay,' Sophie said. ‘I was half expecting her to come with you today.'

‘You're not leaving me here, are you?' Dad asked.

‘Not today, Malcolm. Let's go home for now.' And to Sophie, ‘It's a beautiful facility.'

‘Well, it's here for you,' Sophie said. ‘Come and I'll let you out.'

Sophie walked them back the way they had come, all the way to the keypad door. As she pressed the special numbers, Foster said, ‘If you have to be let out, you're a patient. Mum was a patient once.'

Swoosh.

tilting and taking sides

Of all the servicing strangers who came into the house Foster liked James the most. James was New Respite Man. They'd had to get rid of Old Respite Man because Dad wouldn't let him in the house anymore.

Dad had been asking Mum about her boyfriend for a while. In keeping with Sophie's
‘distract, distract, distract'
line of attack, they all ignored it and talked about something else. Aunty even got Mum to have a bit of a laugh about it. No one knew Dad was brewing a rage. It wasn't real, after all.

Old Respite Man arrived as usual on a Tuesday morning. Foster had never seen him before but it was school holidays. The most boring school holidays he'd ever had. So a visit from a stranger was at least a temporary, hopefully entertaining, diversion for
Foster, who spent most of his time stuck in front of the TV with Dad.

When Mum opened the front door Dad stood up immediately. Old Respite Man went to shake Dad's hand but Dad kept his hands at his sides, fingers coiled into fists.

‘Why are you here?' Dad said quietly. ‘What are you doing in my house?'

‘Malcolm?' Mum said. ‘Malcolm, you know—'

‘Your boyfriend? Yes, I know all about your goddamn boyfriend.'

Foster was dumbstruck by Dad's tone at first. It was nasty. Foster had never known his dad to say or do anything vicious, so he was immediately frightened by this unrecognisable thing coming out of the person he loved. It took a few seconds for the sentence to slowly untwist itself until it rang like an echo inside his head. That's when he registered the swear word.

It took less than a minute. Dad started roaring at them, saying they were having an affair. Foster didn't know what an affair was. Then Dad lunged forward. Mum screamed. Foster slapped his palms over his ears and wanted to squeeze his eyes shut too but he couldn't. He just kept watching, all the while listening to the distorted mishmash of muffled bawling, coming from
who knew where, mixed with the blood pounding in his own ears. Old Respite Man was smaller than Dad but he was fast. He blocked Dad's flailing fists with his arms and at the same time managed to get a solid grip on Dad's wrists. Then he firmly pressed Dad up against the front door. Foster gently released the pressure on his ears. All the screaming had stopped.

Old Respite Man was speaking softly, gently, ‘There you go, Malcolm. It's all right now. Ease down. There you go. I'm going to let go of your wrists now. Can I let go of your wrists now? There you go.' He slowly allowed Dad's arms to drop to his sides, but kept a loose hold of them. It looked like they were holding hands. Then Dad began to cry. Foster felt a stinging in the back of his throat and swallowed hard.

‘Mrs Sumner, are you okay?'

‘Yes,' Mum said. That's when Foster realised she had been crouched on the floor. Foster had missed her ducking to avoid getting hit, but the thought of it now seemed very funny. He didn't want to laugh though. Almost as much as he was determined not to cry.

Mum took Dad by the hand and sat him back down. Dad looked wretched.

‘Please don't leave me,' Dad said.

Old Respite Man sat on the arm of a lounge chair,
where Mum said you weren't supposed to sit, and watched Dad and Mum. Then he touched Mum on the shoulder before walking outside. He made a phone call from the driveway. Foster watched from the lounge room window. While Old Respite Man talked into his phone he glanced occasionally at the house.

By the time Sophie arrived, Dad was calm. It was as if it had never happened. Except it had. Sophie had brought James with her. As soon as Sophie sat down Foster whispered, ‘I think that man hurt my dad.'

Sophie stroked the top of Foster's head and said, ‘No, I don't think so. I think everyone is okay.' Then to Dad, ‘Malcolm, this is James. He's a friend of mine. I was hoping he could watch TV with you.'

‘I need a shave. I've got to get to work.'

‘No problem,' James said. ‘I'll give you a hand.'

As they left the room Dad said, ‘Who are you?'

‘I'm James.'

‘James! For goodness sake! I haven't seen you in years. How've you been?'

Sophie had some paperwork in a file with her and asked Mum a lot of questions. Was this the first time Dad had become violent? Were his responses to being upset or confused changing? Did Mum feel she and her son were unsafe? All three questions followed one after
the other with unfilled pauses between; pauses Foster assumed were supposed to be filled with answers from Mum. But she was quiet. She just sat in a chair swinging her legs as if the chair was too big for her. Sophie had to lean forward and touch Mum's wrist to get a response.

‘No, no,' Mum finally said.

‘No to which question?' Sophie asked. ‘Shall I start again? Would you like a cup of tea?'

‘Foster, go and play in your room,' Mum said.

Foster did go and play in his room. It was one of the few times he actually did not want to hear what the grown-ups were saying. He had to think about things first. He had to not cry.

Dad used to talk a lot about positions. Financial positions, political positions, legal positions, ethical positions. The word ‘position' became fascinating to Foster, far more so than the word which preceded it. A position was clearly an important thing. Foster would listen to Dad talking on the phone after dinner, listen to him arguing a position or sharing a position and without asking for a definition Foster was pretty sure he had worked out the gist. He had to have a position. He wasn't sure why he felt he had to have one, or even what his position would be, but he knew what a position was and that having
one would take away the awful fidgetiness in his chest.

Foster remembered the first time he ever took a position and won with it. It was a school night and when Mum told him to pack up his drawing and get ready for bed, Foster said no. Mum was accustomed to Foster's delay tactics and bargaining for more time, but he could see she was unprepared for an absolute refusal. She laughed a little as she said, ‘What did you say?'

‘I said no.'

Dad was interested now. He looked up from his laptop and said, ‘Why would you say that?'

‘I'm taking a position,' Foster replied.

There was a brief pause before Dad started laughing. Big delight-riddled guffaws. He wasn't laughing at Foster. Foster could tell. Dad seemed genuinely interested when he said, ‘What are you taking a position on and what would that position be?'

‘I'm taking a position on bedtime,' Foster replied solemnly. ‘And my position is that I'm not tired so I will draw for fifteen more minutes and then go to bed without a story to make up the time.'

Foster waited and watched Mum and Dad looking at each other.

‘I can't argue with that position,' Dad said. ‘That is a reasonable position, well expressed.'

‘Okay,' Mum said. ‘Fifteen more minutes, no story.' She didn't seem as delighted as Dad though. Foster felt the win of the position like a free-wheel bike ride down a big hill.

‘However,' Dad said, ‘having someone respect your position is far more likely if you talk with them about it. Respect their position too. No more answering Mum with a no, okay?'

As Foster sat in his room rearranging his soldiers he thought about his position now. He thought about Sophie's questions to Mum because she would be answering them and he didn't trust what she would say. She was the one who wanted to hit Dad sometimes. Would Mum tell Sophie that? Would Sophie write that down? Dad just wanted a man he didn't like out of his house. Foster had thought finding a position on this would be easy. He felt he must have one ready even if he was never asked for it. It would stop him getting lost in everyone else's. He didn't want Dad swinging at people, but he didn't want Mum on her knees on the floor either.

Foster carefully placed the General under the peg basket on his pillow. He could hear Dad and James laughing in the bathroom. He suddenly realised that having a position really just meant taking a side.

temporary tattoos

‘They're all so old,' Aunty said. ‘Did you see anyone there even close to Malcolm's age?'

‘No. And yes, I know,' Mum replied.

‘I still think it's the right thing. You can't cocoon him here. It'll drive you both insane. And with this sort of help you can get back to some sort of normal life.'

‘Normal life?' Mum asked.

‘You know what I mean. This is it, right? This isn't temporary. It's not going to get any better. And having him registered for this will surely make it easier when you have to start considering some sort of residential facility.'