Waiting for Words

A story that’s stuck with me for thirteen years

Hey friend,

The room is silent. The office thrums with noise, occasionally punctuated by screaming, but never silence. A woman weeps, arms clasped around herself, trying to stop her body falling apart. ‘Mental health issues’, ‘substance abuse’, and ‘highly transient’ litter my harried notes from my briefing about her before we came downstairs. I perch next to my colleague, Anne, on a tiny children’s chair. Anne sighs and flips pages aggressively. 

Kathleen presented unannounced, adamant that she could not wait for her Case Manager to get back from Court. So, on my first day as a Duty Officer, I’m waiting for words. 

Photo by Dan Dennis on Unsplash.

She wears an Adidas jacket, too-short jeans, and peeling sneakers. A shockingly pale face, riddled with acne scars, is framed by thin hair dyed an unnatural black. A diamond encrusted ring sparkles on her left hand. 

Anne warned me Kathleen will be angry or suicidal whilst we were walking down the to the Duty Room. I’m expecting to do ‘safety planning’. Safety is one of the Department’s favourite words. How will the children be safe when you are drinking until blackout? How will the children be safe when you are dealing drugs from the front room? How will the children be safe when your partner punches you in the face at dinner? What’s your plan? Tell us you will drop the kids off to a friend when you plan to get high. You’ll put them in a room before your partner flogs you. You won’t get in the car under the influence. Let’s make a Safety Plan! 

We are sitting in the only room left. Bright murals, scattered toys, and teeny-tiny seats contrast the grim direction of my thoughts. 

It was the only room left. Kathleen doesn’t seem to have noticed the décor. Anne taps her pen against the table. Kathleen looks up and wipes her eyes on her jacket, 

“Thanks for seeing me… I, uh, I’ve been selfish. I see that now. I fucked up. My priorities were wrong. After Gavin, all I wanted was to get high... I can’t stop. I’ve been kicked out of my house. It’s taken everything I have to come and talk to youse, to ask for help, but I got nothin, y’know. I need my boy back. I’ll do anything.”

I wasn’t expecting a confession. This is the moment that every Case Manager wants, the acknowledgement of the concerns that resulted in children coming into care. Sometimes we can start working on a plan for children to go home. But it’s too late for reunification for her. The time for those conversations is when a child is subject to a two year Protection Order. But a Protection Order (Until 18) has been granted. She’s had her two years. Her son is not going home. To say this plainly, boldly, feels horrific, as if we would break Kathleen. So, we don’t. We focus on the immediate. 

Anne calls rehabs with her, while I call refuges. At 32, she is out of the youth category, she doesn’t have children in her care, and hasn’t recently escaped domestic violence. After a long string of refusals, the last refuge on the list has one ‘domestic violence bed’ left. The ‘homeless’ beds are taken. I tell the Intake Coordinator at the last refuge that Kathleen hasn’t said anything, but she has a history of violent partners and is walking with a limp. It’s one of the reasons her son is in care. This is enough for a phone interview. 

Kathleen refuses to lie. She presses the landline phone into her ear and curls her finger around the cord, 

“My ex put me in hospital a coupla times. He fractured my jaw, broke my collarbone, three ribs. Pulled out fistfuls of hair, put out cigarettes on me. I have flashbacks every day. I still can’t bite down properly, my jaw never healed right,”

There is a pregnant pause. 

“We’ve been separated for six months. I’ve been staying with friends,”

A longer pause, the cord pulled taut,

“I can’t stay with them anymore. I’ve got nowhere to go.” 

Kathleen looks at me, pleading. She hands the phone over. 

The woman from the refuge barrels right in, condescension curling around the words,

“Sorry, I need someone in a crisis situation, someone who’s escaped violence in the last twenty four hours.”

I thank her and she spits out her goodbye. I place the phone down, take a deep breath, and look at Kathleen. 

“She says you’re not suitable. The bed is only for someone who has just left a violent partner.”

Suddenly she’s not there. Her eyes are dull, giving you the sense that you should not get too close, as if she might strangle you with the phone cord then wake from her stupor to wonder who did it. My stomach prickles uncomfortably. She is unravelling fast and we have nothing to offer. We start to wind it back, try to pack the trauma back in a neat box. 

“We’ll ring the refuges again in the afternoon,” Anne says, 

“It might take a couple of days,” I chip in. 

“And your rehab assessment is in three weeks,” chimes Anne.  

It starts to sink in for Kathleen that there will be no bed for her. She knows as well as we do that there will be no bed miraculously appearing tonight for a woman who left a violent partner six months ago. There is no sudden admission to a residential rehabilitation facility available for tonight. She will need to jump through those hoops in three weeks’ time. If she can even get to the centre for an assessment interview. She has nowhere to stay, a violent ex-partner, and her son is not coming home. 

Kathleen stands up. Hopelessness gives way to anger. The chair smacks into the door and I see why my colleagues are so wary. Pointing at me, she snarls, 

“You cunts always have somewhere. You don’t give a fuck about me.”

“I’m sorry, Kath. You were here with us, everywhere’s full. Here’s the phone numbers, why don’t you try calling them again tomorrow?” I say. 

She takes the short list from me, hunches back into her jacket and despair. 

Anne goes to get her a bus pass. Kathleen is staring at her shoes. 

“I like your ring,” I say.

“Gavin gave it to me. He was sincere then, so I kept it. I can’t look at the other jewellery he gave me.” 

Anne comes back, gathers her things, and remains standing while she gives Kathleen the bus pass. Finally, Kathleen leaves, shambling like she doesn't know where she’s going. Walking upstairs, Anne remarks,

“She’ll be lucky to be alive this time next year.”

Later that day, I get a call from Kathleen, “I need a taxi to my appointment this afternoon. It’s in half an hour.”

“We already gave you a bus pass, Kath. You had all day to sort out how you were going to get there. But in good news, I got you a place in a refuge for the weekend.”

“Oh. Great. Thanks,” she replies. “My case manager thinks I’m a no-hoper,”

“I’ll pass the details for the refuge onto her, she can help you arrange to move in, okay? Is that all for now?”

“Yeah.” 

This is the last time I speak to her. I put Kathleen out of my mind and throw myself into the swirl of reports, emails, and calls I neglected in the hour or so I gave her. It’s like fighting a tidal wave with a bucket. After a while, it’s easy to begrudge her my time. 

She doesn’t turn up for contact with her son. Turns out she was arrested for armed robbery. Thirteen years later, the image of her limping away still lingers in my mind.

Note: all names and identifying details changed.