The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  ‘I’ll be off, love.’ Mum gathers her bag and jacket when dinner is over. She lives only a short drive away, which is one of the reasons I decided to move back to this area, where I spent my own childhood. The other reasons were financial: a house that had fallen in value and was worth less than its purchase price; an already tight cash flow made impossible by the sudden reduction to one income; the existence of high-density, slightly more affordable accommodation in this part of the city.

  ‘I’ll see you after school tomorrow, boys,’ Mum continues, then, with a little laugh, ‘Same time, same place, eh?’

  ‘Bye, Nan,’ the boys chime. They’re back in front of the TV. I really need to do something about how much they watch.

  ‘Bye, Mum.’ My hug is tighter than both of us expect.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’ she asks, peering at me more closely. ‘You’ve been a bit quiet tonight … Did something happen at work?’

  Yes, Mum, something did happen at work. Sophie McCarthy happened. And I feel like I’m sixteen all over again. Sixteen, with no clue about life, about people and what they’re capable of. Timid, naive, insecure, that was me. Clever, confident, unstoppable, that was Sophie McCarthy.

  ‘I’m fine, Mum. Just tired. It’s been a busy day.’

  I allow the boys fifteen more minutes of TV before discovering that their homework is only half done. Then there’s some sternness from me, some push-back from them, before the homework books are opened on the dining table and the apartment is silent as they work.

  Afterwards, it’s showers and bed. They fall asleep within minutes of their heads hitting the pillow. I wish it were the same for me.

  The next two hours are frantic. Throw dirty clothes in the washing machine. Assemble lunchboxes for the morning. Sign various school permission notes. Sew a button on Callum’s school shirt. Check bank balance. Toy with the thought of ringing the soccer club and claiming financial hardship. Discard idea. By the time I get to bed, my mind is whirring. The soccer fees, the car insurance, the clothes the boys are growing out of, Sophie McCarthy, Sophie McCarthy, Sophie McCarthy.

  I remember you, Sophie McCarthy. I have never, not for one moment, forgotten you.

  Stop it, for God’s sake. I’m thirty years old. I’m the mother of twin boys who need me so much that I often feel completely overwhelmed. I’m a widow – a hateful word I used to associate with my own mother, but now it applies to me too. I’m a woman who has gone through the profound shock of losing her husband, a man she assumed she’d grow old with. I am a good administration assistant: efficient, professional and calm under stress. This is who I am, and I can’t let Sophie McCarthy get in the way of any of it because I need this job.

  So what if Jane doesn’t like her? So what if she’s not the easiest to work for? Toughen up, Hannah, get on with it. Buy her coffees from across the road, type up her letters, manage her diary, enter her expense claims. You’re not scared of hard work, are you?

  I need this job. That’s the bottom line here. I need this job, and I can’t afford to jeopardize it in any way.

  Sophie McCarthy, Sophie McCarthy, Sophie McCarthy.

  Stop it, Hannah. She doesn’t remember you anyway. There’s no problem here.

  8

  Dee

  ‘Would you like more potato, Aidan?’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs McCarthy. That’d be great.’

  I prefer to be called Dee and have told him this, but either he’s forgotten or he wants things to stay on more formal terms. I can’t really say it again: I don’t want to come across as one of those impossible-to-please mother-in-laws. Not that Aidan and Sophie are actually married. Still, Richard and I need to come to terms with the fact that this isn’t an ill-considered fling and that Aidan Ryan may be sitting at our dining table for many years to come. Despite everything that has happened, despite our disapproval – Richard has barely said a word to him – it’s obvious that Sophie and Aidan are very serious about each other.

  ‘Here you are.’ I pass the casserole dish to him. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs McCarthy,’ he says, and I’m annoyed all over again.

  When Aidan is done with the roast potatoes, he offers the dish to Sophie, who puts an extra two on her plate. She’s slightly overweight and I care only because I know she cares. Sophie always took great pride in her appearance, and approached her diet and exercise with the same gusto and dedication as everything else in her life. What’s changed is that she doesn’t seem to have the same willpower when it comes to food, which is exacerbated by the fact that she’s not in a position to do any kind of exercise. I’m her mother, her weight doesn’t have any effect on how much I love her, but someone needs to remind her – gently – not to overeat. Still, this isn’t the time or place. Maybe I’ll get an opportunity later on.

  ‘How is work going, Sophie?’ Richard booms across the table.

  His voice seems to be getting louder lately, and I’m beginning to think he might have a problem with his hearing. Again, not the time or place to suggest that he gets it checked out. There’s so much left unsaid at this table. Are other families like this?

  ‘So far, so good.’ Sophie looks across at her father, her face adopting the intense look she always assumes when talking about her career. ‘I’m getting back into the swing of things. A few bad habits seem to have crept in while I’ve been away, so I’ve spent most of the time resetting standards.’

  ‘Good on you,’ Richard declares. ‘Everyone will have to watch their Ps and Qs now you’re back. Right, sweetheart?’

  I wish he wouldn’t talk to her like that, like she’s the best and everyone else is rubbish. We’ve spoken about this before. Many times. It’s like an itch in our marriage.

  Stop making her think she’s so much better than everyone else, Richard.

  But she is better than everyone else, Dee. It’s a fact.

  Everyone has something to offer, Richard. Intellect isn’t the be all and end all! You build her up too much.

  And you seem bloody intent on pulling her down, Dee.

  ‘And how has it been physically, Sophie?’ I ask in a pleasant tone that – I hope – shows no trace of all those old arguments between Richard and me. ‘How have you been feeling?’

  ‘Tired. So tired at night that I can hardly move. And sore. My back has been tighter, probably from all the sitting down.’

  It shows in her face: pale, drawn, frail, despite the extra weight. All of a sudden I feel ashamed of myself. My daughter is a battler who has defied everything that has been thrown at her. She has had to fight for her life not just once, when she was born prematurely, but twice. Sophie is brilliant and brave and truly remarkable. I am the bad one here, the villain. As Richard says, I seem intent on pulling her down, always finding fault.

  ‘I’ve been talking with the physio,’ Aidan interjects quietly. ‘He’s given me some extra tips on what I can do to help Sophie in terms of back massage and exercises. And I’ve worked out a special diet, with lots of complex carbohydrates to boost her energy levels.’

  Despite the fact that he’s directly responsible for the pain that Sophie is in, and the fact that this is a man who left his wife and child to pursue a relationship with my daughter, a tiny part of me has to admit that I could like Aidan Ryan if I allowed myself to. I can see why Sophie is attracted to him. That quiet sense of authority he has. His strength – more than once I have found my eyes drawn to the swell of muscles on his upper arms. How obliging he is. Massaging Sophie’s back. Helping her around the house. After this meal, he’ll get up from his seat and clear the table. Aidan Ryan is a doer. He gets on with the job, whatever it happens to be. It’s something they teach them in the army, I suppose. He says, ‘No problem,’ a lot, and I get the impression he means exactly that: nothing is insurmountable, everything – ultimately – can be fixed.

  ‘Jacob and the kids are coming at Easter,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘We should organize something while he’s around. A barbecue would be
nice.’

  Sophie chews on her food, looking uninterested.

  Aidan answers on her behalf. ‘That sounds good. We don’t have any plans for the Easter weekend. Just name the day and we’ll keep it free.’

  Sophie remains noncommittal, and I sigh, a brief emission of air and disappointment. It’s an area where I have failed as a mother: I dearly wanted to instil a sense of closeness, of kinship, between my children. Jacob lives in Newcastle, a couple of hours’ drive away, where he works for the local government as a communications officer: press releases, advertising, council newsletters, that sort of thing. I know – from speaking to friends who have grown-up children of similar ages – that other siblings manage to talk on the phone, or Skype, or catch up for coffees, meals or drinks on a regular basis. If I didn’t insist on a family occasion every time Jacob’s in town, I don’t think he and Sophie would lay eyes on each other at all. It saddens me – puzzles me – this lack of closeness between the two of them. When they were little they would play together, and now I’m trying hard to remember when that stopped. OK, there wasn’t much love during their teenage years, but that’s pretty normal with all the angst and hormones getting in the way. As adults, I fully expected them to rediscover each other. I’ve questioned them both. Sophie seems apathetic (Why do we have to be close, Mum? We’ve nothing in common. At least we’re civil – that’s more than can be said for many siblings). And Jacob seems overly wary of his sister … he seems to remember a lot more childhood squabbles than I do.

  Sophie’s distant with Milli and Hugo too, and that’s inexcusable. She’s their aunt, for goodness’ sake. How can she not feel a connection? How can her heart not melt at the thought of their chubby faces, their devilish smiles, their developing personalities? I find myself asking: Who is she, this daughter of mine? What is going on in that head of hers? Do I really know her? And you know what makes me even more upset? Aidan’s daughter, that’s who. The fact that Sophie sees more of that girl – Jasmin – than her own niece and nephew. Jasmin seems like a lovely girl, and none of this situation is her fault, but I can’t help feeling jealous on behalf of Milli and Hugo. All I can hope for is that Sophie will find her niece and nephew more interesting when they’re older and will form a relationship with them then.

  As predicted, Aidan stands up and begins to clear the table when we’ve all finished eating. He rinses the plates before stacking them in the dishwasher.

  ‘Do you want to keep any of this, Mrs McCarthy?’ he asks, his gaze sweeping across the pots – some with leftover vegetables in them – sitting on the stove-top.

  ‘It’s Dee!’ I snap, before I can help myself. ‘I don’t like being called Mrs McCarthy. Dee is fine. And the pots are fine too. I’ll take care of them.’

  There’s a stunned silence. Sophie and Richard are shocked because this sort of behaviour – being caustic and bad-mannered to anyone, let alone a dinner guest – is so out of character for me. I’m shocked, myself. I’m the easy-going one in the family, the peacemaker, but everything seems to have got on top of me today: Sophie and Aidan, Richard and Sophie, Sophie and Jacob.

  It all comes back to Sophie. That’s why I’m so disgruntled. I feel like I’ve failed her in some way, but don’t ask me how.

  Aidan is the only one of us who isn’t rattled by my outburst. ‘No problem … I’ll take out the rubbish, Dee.’

  9

  Chloe

  ‘Go back to bed, Jasmin.’ My voice is as calm as I can muster at this time of night.

  ‘I’ve lost my tiredness, Mum.’

  From the corner of my eye, I see her walk from the doorway, where she hovered for the first few moments, to the side of the armchair where I’m sitting. Don’t look at her. Don’t engage. Minimal communication. That’s what all the experts say.

  ‘Bed. Now.’

  ‘I’m not tired, Mum.’ Her voice gets progressively louder with each word. ‘I’m … not … tired … any … more.’

  My eyes veer from the TV programme I’ve been trying to watch. Jasmin’s face is red, her hands fidgety. Not good signs. ‘Don’t you raise your voice to me, Jasmin Ryan. Go back to bed this instant.’

  ‘I can’t sleep. I … can’t … sleep.’

  Oh, for pity’s sake. How many times have I heard that phrase tonight? How many times over the last few months? The last year?

  ‘Of course you can sleep. Telling yourself that you can’t isn’t helping, you know that. You must tell yourself that you can sleep … Now, back to bed.’

  ‘Can you tuck me in?’

  ‘I’ve already tucked you in. Twice.’

  ‘Please tuck me in. Please … Please.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m … really … sorry … I … just … can’t … sleep.’

  ‘You can sleep,’ I insist. ‘Off to bed now. Goodnight.’

  My acting skills are quite amazing. I sound fully confident that my child is going to trot off to bed, hop under the covers and fall into a deep sleep.

  She turns, walks rather promisingly towards the door, then stops dead. ‘Can you tuck me in, Mum?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake. We’ve just had this discussion. Stop asking the same questions over and over again. Just go to bed, Jasmin. Go to bed.’

  That wasn’t good. It wasn’t calm. Not calm at all. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. You can still save this, Chloe.

  ‘I’m trying,’ she wails. ‘I’m trying. Why are you being so mean to me?’

  ‘Because I’m tired,’ I wail back at her. ‘OK, I’ll tuck you in. I’ll tuck you in – even though I know it’ll make no difference whatsoever. You’ll be back down here in ten minutes.’

  Grabbing her by the arm, I march her out to the hall and up the stairs.

  ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’

  ‘You’ve already been, remember? The last time you got out of bed.’

  ‘I need to go again.’

  ‘Go, then. Just go.’

  Calm down, Chloe. Calm down. You’re doing all the wrong things. Again.

  ‘I’m sorry for shouting,’ I say when she emerges. ‘Shouting doesn’t help.’

  ‘I’m sorry too, Mum.’ Her face crumples with fresh tears.

  ‘Come here, darling.’ I give her a brisk hug, and plant a kiss on her forehead, which feels hot under my lips. ‘Now, we’re going to start again, OK?’

  Ushering her into the darkened room, I pull back the covers. She obligingly gets in, curls up on one side, and yawns. Maybe this will be it for tonight. Dear Lord, please let this be it.

  Downstairs, instead of waiting tensely for the next instalment in the bedtime saga – as I often do – I try to be proactive and make myself a cup of herbal tea. The programme I was half watching earlier has finished, and I pick up one of my sewing magazines instead. There are a number of patterns I want to try – a pretty skirt for Jasmin, a kaftan-style dress for myself. Just when I think she’s actually done it, fallen asleep, I hear a thump overhead, then the creak of the floorboards, before the sound of her bedroom door opening. She lasted fifteen minutes. That’s a long time for her, at this stage of the night.

  She’s trying, Chloe. Don’t get cross with her. She’s trying.

  Then the same conversation happens again. I’m not tired, Mum. You are tired, Jasmin. Can you tuck me in? No. She starts crying, I start shouting, we both say sorry.

  By the time she’s back in bed, my tea is cold. What I’d give to finish a cup of tea, to watch a late-night TV show from start to end, to make a start on one of the patterns in the magazine, or read a book. What I’d give to be able to call my parents, who are on an extended trip to Europe, or one of my interstate friends for a long chat. These are the things I used to do at night, before Jasmin lost faith in her ability to fall asleep.

  There’s another thump upstairs and suddenly I’m furious, more furious than ever, tonight or any other night, or any other point in my life that I can remember.

  ‘I can’t take this any more, Jasmin. I am too tired.’


  She doesn’t progress past the doorway. ‘Are you going to move out, like Daddy did?’

  ‘Of course not. Just go to bed. Go to bed, for pity’s sake.’

  And she goes, running up the stairs, sobbing hysterically. How have you let it get to this, Chloe? You’re hopeless. This wouldn’t have happened if Aidan were here. Jasmin would be in bed by now; it would be over for the night. But Aidan’s not here. He’s not here, damn him. He’ll text tomorrow to ask how the night went. A text doesn’t count him in. I hate him. I hate him. No, I wish I hated him. It would be so much easier if I did.

  Jasmin has stopped at her bedroom door. ‘Can you please tuck me in? Please, Mum.’

  Nothing works. Being patient. Being firm. Having consequences. Not having consequences. Explaining the impact of her actions. Making light of it. Engaging. Not engaging. Tucking in. Not tucking in. Having a screaming match the entire neighbourhood can hear. Nothing works.

  ‘Please, Mum?’ Her face is blotched, her nose running, her entire body trembling. What am I to do with this child? Tomorrow morning, after I’ve dragged her out of bed, she will be contrite and cooperative and generally delightful. What is the answer? What is the answer?

  It’s well past midnight. That’s the only thing I know.

  I trudge up the stairs and walk her back to bed. Then, completely defeated, I lie down next to her, one arm tight around her thin, shaking shoulders.