Can I Let You Go?. Cathy Glass
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would be the trigger that allowed Faye to start talking about her pregnancy. If so, I would be considerably relieved.
A very smiley assistant greeted us at the entrance of the store and offered us a basket, which Faye took. Gentle, soothing lullaby music played in the background all around the store, and immediately on our right was the newborn section, with rows and rows of the cutest first-size baby clothes. Faye went straight to them and I followed, feeling that this was a good first step. Although we were here to buy her maternity clothes, if she wanted to buy a first-size outfit for the baby then she could; it would be an acknowledgement that she was pregnant and going to have a baby. Faye picked out the sweetest little pink-and-white dress I’ve ever seen. ‘This would fit Suzie,’ she said, holding it up.
‘Is that what you’re going to call your baby?’ I asked, surprised, and feeling we had taken a big leap forward.
‘Suzie is my doll at home,’ she said, ignoring my reference to the baby.
‘These are first-size baby clothes,’ I said. ‘For newborn babies, not for dolls.’
‘It will fit Suzie,’ she said.
‘It probably will, but we’re not here to dress your doll, love. We need to buy you some maternity clothes.’
She was clearly disappointed, which I felt bad about, but she returned the dress to the rail and came with me to the maternity wear section, and we looked around.
‘This is a lovely dress,’ I said, selecting one. ‘I think it would suit you. Would you like to try it on in your size?’
Her face lit up. ‘Oh, yes, please.’ The doll’s clothes were forgotten.
‘Excellent. Try on a few different ones.’ I helped her select dresses in her size and we put them into the basket for her to try on later. I continued flicking through the rails with Faye close beside me and I showed her some leggings and tops. ‘These are good for everyday use,’ I said. She nodded enthusiastically. ‘Which tops do you like?’ She chose a few and put them in the basket. I added black maternity leggings to go with the tops.
‘Do you need any help?’ another cheery assistant asked.
‘I think we’re OK, thank you,’ I said.
‘When’s the baby due?’ she asked, looking at Faye. I guessed it was part of their sales patter.
Faye smiled but didn’t reply.
‘December,’ I said.
‘A Christmas baby, how lovely,’ the assistant enthused. ‘Please ask me or any of the assistants if you need help or would like to be measured for a maternity bra.’ She glanced at Faye.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
Once she’d gone I asked Faye if she would like to be measured for a bra and I explained what was involved. She pulled a face and said no, so I said I’d guess her size and she could try on some bras in the cubicle, for her present ones must be tight by now. Together we continued round the store and selected some pretty lace-trimmed bras, maternity trousers, a pair of pyjamas, a nightdress, pants and camisole tops, which I explained were like vests. With the basket full we went into the changing rooms, where I hung all the garments on the hooks in a cubicle and then waited just outside while Faye tried them on, ready to help if necessary. Undressing and dressing was a slow process for Faye, but it was important she did it herself. She came out and showed me each outfit once it was on, smiling and twirling in front of the mirror. She was in her element, bless her, but had no idea what fitted or suited her, so I helped her choose. The bras were too small, so I asked one of the assistants to bring in bigger sizes, and eventually Faye had tried on everything. She wanted to wear one of the dresses straight away, so, leaving her in the cubicle, I took the dress to the till, paid for it, and returned it to her. She was delighted.
‘I look pretty, don’t I?’ she said, gazing at her image in the mirror.
‘You do, love. Very pretty.’ The dress was made from a light grey and pink check material, with long sleeves, and was loosely gathered under the bust to accommodate her growing bump, although I didn’t say that to Faye. I just admired it and then, collecting together all the other items we wanted, we went to the till to pay for the rest.
Faye had put on her old duffel coat over the dress. It didn’t do up, and I realized we needed to buy her a better-fitting coat or jacket. After trying on a few we chose a three-quarter-length beige quilted jacket, which she would also be able to wear after the birth. I’d spent far more than the clothing allowance I’d receive for fostering Faye – rarely did it cover equipping a child from scratch – but it was completely worth it. Not only was Faye delighted with all her new clothes, I felt proud that she looked smart, as I thought her grandparents would be. Yet Faye had successfully chosen a whole new wardrobe of maternity clothes without so much as acknowledging she was pregnant!
By the time we left the store it was nearly 1.00 p.m. I was hungry and Faye said she was too. I suggested that rather than go straight home we could take the bags to the car and then have lunch in the mall. She loved the idea and wanted to wear her new jacket instead of her old duffel coat, so she changed into it by the car. Faye was like a child in a new dress going to a party as we headed back to the elevator. Her excitement bubbled over and she kept hugging me and thanking me. She didn’t look obviously disabled as a person with Down’s syndrome or cerebral palsy might, but strangers tended to notice something in her manner and behaviour and so they’d glance at her, smile politely and look away. Which is what the couple in the elevator did as Faye hugged me again and said how much she liked her new clothes and didn’t she look pretty.
Many of the restaurants, cafés and bars on the ground floor of the mall were open-plan and as we approached this area we were greeted with an array of delicious aromas from the different cuisines on offer: Chinese, Thai, Malaysian, Mexican, Indian, as well as traditional British food. I asked Faye what she liked but she didn’t know. I explained a little about the different foods and Faye stopped at a Malaysian buffet where a large screen on the wall above the counter showed enticing pictures of their range of dishes. She’d never eaten Malaysian food before but wanted to try it, so, aware of her rather conservative tastes in food, I suggested a selection of dishes that weren’t too hot and didn’t include shellfish, which I knew pregnant women were advised to avoid. I carefully carried the tray with the dishes to one of the bench-style tables and we sat on either side. The food tasted as delicious as it looked in the pictures and Faye enjoyed it. As we ate we talked and I reminded Faye that she was going to see her grandparents the following day. I also asked her if she wanted to go to the day centre on Wednesday; if so, I’d go with her on the bus, but she said she didn’t want to.
‘I want to go to the stables,’ she said.
‘I know, love, but do you remember your grandpa and Becky explaining that you couldn’t go while you’re expecting? Grandpa said you could go again in ninety-eight sleeps. That was when I visited you at your flat. It will be fewer now.’
‘How many now?’ she asked.
I did a quick calculation. ‘Eighty-eight,’ I said.
Satisfied, she returned to her food.
A couple with a toddler and a very small baby in a pram were sitting at the table next to us. The little boy was happily trying all the different foods, liking some but not others. When the baby woke the mother picked her up and gave her a bottle. I glanced at Faye to see if there was any reaction, but there wasn’t. She just continued eating. I’d noticed in the store earlier, where many of the women had been expecting or had a baby with them, that Faye hadn’t given them a second glance, outwardly uninterested, which seemed to confirm that perhaps she didn’t fully understand she was pregnant, for I would have expected her to at least look at them, if not comment.
Faye ate well, very well. There wasn’t a morsel left on her plate. But as we stood to leave I wondered if she’d overeaten, because she gave a small gasp and, bending forward, momentarily touched her stomach.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked, concerned.
‘No.