Read Online The Stolen Girl by Renita D'Silva - Free Book Online
Authors: Renita D'Silva
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café looms, a tired woman manning the counter, sorry-looking cakes and sandwiches drooping in orange light.
‘Ah, here we are.’ The social worker’s voice falsely cheery, both of us relieved.
She buys me a sandwich, apple juice, a packet of crisps and some oat biscuits, and I eat to fill the Mum-sized hole in me, to allay the fear, to douse the worry. I cannot taste the food and the Mum-sized hole refuses to be filled by anything other than Mum herself, and yet I eat. I chew and swallow, because at least it is something to do. My stomach roils. The flower of pain flourishes. This is too big a loss, too huge a pain for food to comfort, to soothe; too wide a chasm to fill. For the first time in my life, even the one thing usually guaranteed to ease the pain is not helping.
The social worker watches me eat, her eyes soft as the sky at twilight, and I am reminded of Mum watching me those evenings when she brought back my favourite dishes from whichever Indian restaurant she was currently working at. I turn away from the social worker’s gaze and freeze momentarily, almost choking on my juice at the sight of us reflected in the glass window of the café, a chubby woman gazing affectionately at a chubby girl who could, in this shadowy light, be her daughter. My stomach churns. My body hurts, the flower of pain running riot inside.
‘Let’s go,’ I say, not able to finish the food for perhaps the first time in my life, binning the rest instead of saving it for later, knowing it will not help, not relieve me of the incessant ache of missing my mother.
In the car, the social worker, Jane – such a solid, dependable name – says, for at least the third time since I’ve met her, ‘If you need to talk about anything, anything at all, I’m here. Okay?’
Like all the other times, I pretend not to hear, staring resolutely out of the window at the blackness outside.
‘I mean, I may not physically be there if it is, say, the middle of the night, but you have my number. You can call anytime. Even if it’s four in the morning.’
She smiles. I don’t.
‘You cannot take me to see my mum.’ My voice sullen, tinged purple with agony and yellow with tiredness.
She sighs, defeated. ‘Not now. But I will try and find out what the legal constraints are, I promise.’
The foster carers’ house is in a quiet residential street a twenty minute drive away. Good , I think, the further away I am, the better.
The door is opened by a slight woman wearing a salwar, her hair pulled back in a bun.
‘Hello, Diya. I am Farah. Welcome,’ she says, enveloping me in a hug before I can move away, her gentle fingers stroking my hair.
She smells of sanctuary and of detergent, with a slight hint of curry. She smells of home, of Mum after she’s come back from the restaurant and had her shower. This woman’s smell, the feeling of being in her arms, brings it all back, threatens to undo me and I push her away, hard.
I cannot trust anyone. How can I, when the person I love most in the world has betrayed me? I believe my mum and yet, all the evidence points to her guilt. I think of her, just standing there meekly, her gaze apologetic. Allowing herself to be led away like a criminal. ‘You tell them, Mum,’ I had pleaded. And she had done nothing, hadn’t denied the accusations. All she had said was that she loved me, that I was her daughter.
I close my eyes, push these thoughts away, try to get my bearings. I cannot trust anyone. Not even myself. Not when I betray myself every time I think of her, miss her, ache for her. I have to be strong. I cannot afford to get close to anyone. This woman is just a foster carer, paid to look after me for a few days.
At least she didn’t kidnap you.
My eyes sting, a feeling fast becoming as familiar as breathing. When I open them, I spy two heads peeking from behind a half-open door, one stacked on top of the other, the hint of a pyjama bottom, stripy blue. Identical bug eyes, identical shocks
‘Ah, here we are.’ The social worker’s voice falsely cheery, both of us relieved.
She buys me a sandwich, apple juice, a packet of crisps and some oat biscuits, and I eat to fill the Mum-sized hole in me, to allay the fear, to douse the worry. I cannot taste the food and the Mum-sized hole refuses to be filled by anything other than Mum herself, and yet I eat. I chew and swallow, because at least it is something to do. My stomach roils. The flower of pain flourishes. This is too big a loss, too huge a pain for food to comfort, to soothe; too wide a chasm to fill. For the first time in my life, even the one thing usually guaranteed to ease the pain is not helping.
The social worker watches me eat, her eyes soft as the sky at twilight, and I am reminded of Mum watching me those evenings when she brought back my favourite dishes from whichever Indian restaurant she was currently working at. I turn away from the social worker’s gaze and freeze momentarily, almost choking on my juice at the sight of us reflected in the glass window of the café, a chubby woman gazing affectionately at a chubby girl who could, in this shadowy light, be her daughter. My stomach churns. My body hurts, the flower of pain running riot inside.
‘Let’s go,’ I say, not able to finish the food for perhaps the first time in my life, binning the rest instead of saving it for later, knowing it will not help, not relieve me of the incessant ache of missing my mother.
In the car, the social worker, Jane – such a solid, dependable name – says, for at least the third time since I’ve met her, ‘If you need to talk about anything, anything at all, I’m here. Okay?’
Like all the other times, I pretend not to hear, staring resolutely out of the window at the blackness outside.
‘I mean, I may not physically be there if it is, say, the middle of the night, but you have my number. You can call anytime. Even if it’s four in the morning.’
She smiles. I don’t.
‘You cannot take me to see my mum.’ My voice sullen, tinged purple with agony and yellow with tiredness.
She sighs, defeated. ‘Not now. But I will try and find out what the legal constraints are, I promise.’
The foster carers’ house is in a quiet residential street a twenty minute drive away. Good , I think, the further away I am, the better.
The door is opened by a slight woman wearing a salwar, her hair pulled back in a bun.
‘Hello, Diya. I am Farah. Welcome,’ she says, enveloping me in a hug before I can move away, her gentle fingers stroking my hair.
She smells of sanctuary and of detergent, with a slight hint of curry. She smells of home, of Mum after she’s come back from the restaurant and had her shower. This woman’s smell, the feeling of being in her arms, brings it all back, threatens to undo me and I push her away, hard.
I cannot trust anyone. How can I, when the person I love most in the world has betrayed me? I believe my mum and yet, all the evidence points to her guilt. I think of her, just standing there meekly, her gaze apologetic. Allowing herself to be led away like a criminal. ‘You tell them, Mum,’ I had pleaded. And she had done nothing, hadn’t denied the accusations. All she had said was that she loved me, that I was her daughter.
I close my eyes, push these thoughts away, try to get my bearings. I cannot trust anyone. Not even myself. Not when I betray myself every time I think of her, miss her, ache for her. I have to be strong. I cannot afford to get close to anyone. This woman is just a foster carer, paid to look after me for a few days.
At least she didn’t kidnap you.
My eyes sting, a feeling fast becoming as familiar as breathing. When I open them, I spy two heads peeking from behind a half-open door, one stacked on top of the other, the hint of a pyjama bottom, stripy blue. Identical bug eyes, identical shocks
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