Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [29]
After what seemed like no time at all, Mum said, ‘I’ll come here every day at this time. Can you get out?’
‘I think so.’
‘Wonderful. I love you, Cathy.’
‘I love you, Mum.’
And then she was gone.
Going back to my open prison that night was a lot easier, knowing I had something to look forward to the next day. And I didn’t wet the bed.
Straight after lunch, I bounded across the road like a puppy off the leash for the first time. A couple of other kids from the home were there as well and they wanted me to play with them. I tried to join in, but my heart wasn’t in it. I couldn’t help scanning the park, searching for that familiar figure. But she never came.
The exhilaration I’d felt the previous day was replaced by gloom as I slumped back home. How could she do this to me? How could she just not turn up like that?
The worst thing was, I couldn’t tell anyone about it, so I had to endure endless comments about how I needed to cheer up. By the time I went to bed I was still furious. Only in the darkness, with the house beginning its nocturnal symphony, did that slowly change to fear.
What if she tried to come but couldn’t? What if she’s hurt?
It took no time at all to go from hating her for oversleeping to worrying she was dead under a bus. The dark does that to people, especially kids.
The next day I had two choices: go to the park or not. If I didn’t, I would never know if she was all right. But if I did and Mum didn’t appear, could I really take that pain?
Of course I went. I’d just about given up hope when I saw her.
‘Where were you?’
‘Oh,’ Mum looked confused, ‘you know . . .’
I didn’t, but I let it pass. She didn’t look well. I wasn’t going to ruin today by worrying about yesterday.
And so we continued. September turned into October and that, in turn, quickly became November. By now the weather wasn’t exactly park-friendly, but every day I still went out, which had the added advantage of reducing my foster father’s opportunities to corner me alone. Some days I’d be home early, dry but disappointed. Other days, successful days, it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d been drenched head to foot. I’d seen Mum and that was all that mattered.
There was only one blip. I got used to Mum not showing up more than four or five times a week, but I really pinned my hopes on her being there on one particular day – 15 November. My birthday. And she didn’t show up.
I don’t think anyone else knew that was the day I turned seven. If they did, they certainly didn’t celebrate it with me. But Mum must have known. So why didn’t she come?
I couldn’t answer that. When I went to bed I reflected on the most miserable birthday ever. No cake, no presents. Not even a single burst of ‘Happy Birthday’.
I was so furious I couldn’t get to sleep. I’m glad now. If I had nodded off, maybe I wouldn’t have heard the sound of pebbles cascading against my bedroom window.
What on earth’s going on?
I pulled myself out of my lower bunk and peered through the glass.
No way!
Hiding behind one of the bushes was the unmistakeable figure of my mother. Suddenly I was terrified that she might be seen – but Mum had already thought of that. She was waving and pointing somewhere. I couldn’t see from my window, but I could guess where she was directing me to.
A few minutes later, clutching my clothes under my arm, I tiptoed down to the little ground-floor toilet. Throwing trousers and a jumper on, I looked up at the open window. That was what Mum had seen. That was how she expected us to be reunited again.
One foot on the cistern, one on the seat, somehow I managed to pull myself high enough to scramble over the metal window ledge and drop down outside. Luckily, Mum was there to help me down.
I couldn’t get over how delirious I was to see her silly, grinning face. For a second we just stared at each other. Then I thought, I don’t care who sees, and gave her the most