The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry …’

  ‘Ssh, Jazz …’

  For the next twenty minutes, she’s too overwrought to lie still, jerking and twitching against me. Finally, just as I’m losing sensation in my arm, her breathing becomes more even, the twitches less frequent. She’s asleep. Carefully, I adjust the angle of my arm to ease the pins and needles, but I don’t dare to move any other part of me in case it wakes her up. More than once I’ve woken her as I tried to creep out of the room. The very thought roots me to the bed. Twenty more minutes pass by, and I lie next to her in the dark, thinking of all the things I could have done differently tonight.

  Bit by bit I move my arm away from her and edge my way off the bed, stopping when it creaks loudly and waiting a few moments until I know it’s safe to continue. I tiptoe across the carpet, and spend a few moments on the door, trying to open it as noiselessly as possible. She tosses and turns in the bed. Fighting sleep. Even now.

  What is it? What is wrong with her? Because it’s very clear that something is wrong. This isn’t normal. Nobody can tell me this is normal. Yet that’s what all the questionnaires have come back with: Jasmin is a normal nine-year-old girl. She doesn’t have ADHD, ADD, OCD, ODD, Asperger’s, autism, anxiety or any other recognizable disorder. She’s attentive and focused at school, listens when she is spoken to, and her ability to follow instructions is in fact at a level much higher than usual for her age. Except when it comes to bedtime.

  Downstairs, I turn off the TV, pour the remains of my tea down the sink and switch off all the lights.

  As I stand in the dark kitchen, a sob erupts from deep inside me. I am the worst mother in the world. A dreadfully cruel mother who yells and loses her temper and who is damaging her child – a precious, unique, truly marvellous girl – for life.

  I’m sorry, Jasmin. I’m so very sorry. We can’t go on like this. We can’t.

  10

  Aidan

  Dust billows in my face. Rubble crunches underfoot. One of my men – on my nod – kicks in the door and we swarm inside. The walls, as with most of the traditional dwellings, are made of mud, and the room has a serious deficit of air and light. Mattresses and pillows line the perimeter. How many live here? Ten? Fifteen? There’s a sound. We all hear it and train our rifles towards that corner of the room. My men are seeking my go-ahead to open fire. I hesitate. What if there’s a child behind that sound? Or an old man, quivering with fear? A dark-eyed young woman, too scared to breathe? Then another sound: an unmistakeable click.

  I wake to the burst of gunfire. My heart’s racing. I’m sweating as hard as if I really were in Kabul, and the terror is just as palpable. I check the clock for reassurance rather than a need to know the time. I always wake early, even on weekends. It annoys Sophie, who likes to sleep in. It used to annoy Chloe too. Even when Jasmin would have us up half the night, I still woke early the next morning. Yeah, I was tired, so tired it was a struggle to get ready for work, to get through the day, but my eyes opened bang on 5.30 a.m. and, no matter what, even if it was a weekend and there was nowhere to go and nothing pressing to do, I simply couldn’t fall back asleep. My body point-blank refused. Maybe this is how it is for Jasmin. She’s tired and wants to sleep, but her body simply won’t allow it.

  I slip out of bed as unobtrusively as I can, deciding to forego my shower until later, when Sophie is awake. The kitchen is shrouded in bluish predawn light. I fill the kettle with fresh water, throw a tea bag into a mug and wonder how Jasmin got on last night. It’s too early to text Chloe to ask.

  My tea’s ready, and I take the mug over to the glass-topped dining table where I left my iPad last night. The psychologist’s report, the last thing I was reading before going to bed, opens up on the screen. ‘Dr Matthew Wheatley’ is emblazoned across the top. Chloe seems to trust Matthew. When she’s feeling positive, she believes that he can genuinely help Jasmin. When she’s feeling negative, well, like me, all the worst scenarios come to mind: Jasmin being like this for ever; Jasmin beginning to do badly at school; Jasmin not being able to hold down a job as an adult, not being able to maintain any meaningful relationships, being a social outcast.

  OCD was my greatest fear, because there is something compulsive about how Jasmin repeatedly gets out of bed. She knows she shouldn’t, but she does it anyway, can’t seem to stop herself. Chloe relayed my specific concerns to the psychologist, and he has addressed it in his report. Now I read back over the relevant paragraph, reassuring myself again.

  OCD is an anxiety disorder that usually stems from an obsessive fear: fear of contamination or illness, excessive concerns about symmetry, exactness, morality, religion, to name a few examples. Compulsions are repetitive actions carried out to try to prevent the obsessive fear from happening: excessive hand washing and cleaning; repeated checking of locks and appliances; applying rigid rules and patterns to the placement of objects; touching, tapping or moving in a particular way or a certain number of times. Jasmin presents no signs of the obsession (excessive fear) or compulsions (compulsions usually happen all day, every day, not just at night).

  But despite being somewhat reassured, Chloe and I are still in the dark: we don’t know what’s causing this. You could say that we know more about what it isn’t than what it is. Some anomalies did pop up in Jasmin’s results. The report refers to something it calls her ‘low registration’, which apparently means that she doesn’t have a strong sense of self-awareness. The report also states that our daughter has relatively high sensory sensitivity – whatever that means. Last night, I wrote down both terms – ‘low registration’ and ‘sensory sensitivity’ – on the back of an envelope, which is still next to the iPad. Later today, when my brain is switched into gear, I’ll spend some time on Google and try to educate myself.

  I switch screens from the report to the news headlines. A scandal involving a politician I used to admire. Wild weather in Far North Queensland. A rugby player involved in a nightclub punch-up. The breaking stories provide enough distraction to get me through to six thirty. Still too early to text Chloe?

  Almost by telepathy, my phone beeps with a message: Are you up?

  Yeah. How was last night?

  Dreadful.

  Damn it. Not what I wanted to hear.

  Want to talk? I type, after only the slightest hesitation.

  A few moments later my phone begins to ring.

  ‘Hey,’ I say.

  She’s crying. ‘I was horrible to her … Horrible.’

  ‘Ssh … It’s all right.’ Consoling Chloe is second nature to me. I can see her right now, sitting up in bed, knees pulled against her chest, the phone cradled against her ear, her sun-bleached hair and year-round tan, her cheerfully coloured pyjamas contrasting with the white bedlinen … but it’s not a good idea to dwell on those kinds of details. ‘You tried your best … I know how frustrating it can be.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do any more …’ Her voice shudders with each sob. ‘I wake up feeling so guilty, already dreading the next night …’

  ‘When’s your next meeting with the psychologist?’

  ‘Thursday, after school.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘But your work …’ She knows that my job isn’t flexible, that arriving late or leaving early – no matter what the family occasion – is frowned upon.

  ‘It’s no problem. I’ll talk to the colonel. He’ll understand.’

  She cries even harder. ‘It’s not only Jasmin who turns into a monster at night … it’s me too.’

  ‘You’re not a monster, Chlo. Far from it.’

  ‘You didn’t see me yelling at her last night.’

  ‘You need a break, that’s all. A night off.’

  She sniffs a few times, then sighs. ‘You’re right, I think I do. For her sake and mine.’

  ‘Leave it with me, OK? It’s time we sorted something out … Is Jasmin awake?’

  ‘No. She was exhausted by the time she finally fell asleep. I’m
going to leave her as long as I can.’

  I’m not sure if it’s wise, allowing her to sleep in. Won’t that put her even more out of her routine, make her less tired when she goes to bed tonight? Still, I have no right to object. Not from here, from Sophie’s house.

  ‘Hey, I’ll get the bus over later on, take her for a kick-around at the park, burn off some energy.’

  ‘If only it was as simple as needing to burn off energy.’ She has stopped crying, but she sounds hollow, defeated, and it’s almost as bad. Chloe is colourful, loud, effervescent – even when she’s angry or upset – and I always find it especially disconcerting when she’s flat.

  ‘I know … I’ll see you later, OK? We’ll talk properly then.’

  A small sound by the kitchen door causes me to swing around on my seat. Sophie, wearing very short pyjama pants and a skimpy vest, is standing there, glowering. To be fair, I can see how this looks from her end: Chloe and I having an obviously intimate conversation in the early hours of the morning, when everyone involved should still be in bed.

  ‘Your phone woke me up.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I stand up from the table, stretching. ‘Look, we needed to talk about Jasmin.’

  ‘And you’re telling me it couldn’t have waited until later?’

  Normally I would put my arms around her, give her a hug and a kiss to show her that she has no need to be jealous of Chloe. But Chloe sobbing like that, the thought of the scene that happened last night, the guilt I feel at leaving her to deal with Jasmin on her own, makes me less contrite. Instead I am becoming aggravated at an unjustifiable and alarming rate. My hands tense by my sides. That urge again, to hit, to strike out, to find release. ‘I’m going for a run.’

  She frowns at me. ‘Didn’t you do a big run yesterday?’

  Sophie retains detail in a way Chloe doesn’t. I’m still getting used to this aspect of her personality. Sometimes it feels like she is trying to catch me out, even though I know that’s not the case.

  ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’

  Yesterday’s run was fitness training in preparation for Operation Panther. Ten kilometres in full uniform and boots, with twenty kilos of equipment on our backs. Upstairs, I change into shorts, a sleeveless T-shirt, and trainers – infinitely more comfortable than yesterday’s running attire – and within a matter of minutes I’m outside. I set a punishing pace from the outset, one I can’t hope to maintain for long, but soon the rhythm and sheer exertion take almost all my concentration. My aggravation and guilt, Sophie’s jealousy, Chloe’s tears and disappointment in herself, the ongoing mystery of Jasmin’s sleeplessness, are all temporarily left behind.

  11

  Hannah

  Jane is having a rant about Sophie. ‘It’s exactly how it was before. Phone calls after hours. Emails twenty-four/seven. The constant pressure. The knowledge that she’s never going to let up on me and, no matter how hard I try, I’ll never measure up.’

  Jane and I are having lunch in an old-style café a few streets away from the office. Conversation is pretty one way today; she’s letting off steam. I feel sorry for her, I really do, but I’m getting caught in the middle. The truth is, the two of them clash. Jane thinks the worst of Sophie, and Sophie thinks the worst of Jane. If both of them backed down just a little, there wouldn’t be this constant warfare.

  ‘Of course you measure up, Jane. You’re a qualified actuary with years and years of experience. I think these problems are happening because Sophie relies on you so much. Maybe you should send her an email telling her how much pressure you’re under. Putting it in writing would give you the opportunity to choose your words carefully, to let her know that –’

  Jane isn’t listening to a word I say. ‘It was Sunday night, for Christ’s sake. And it was a complex report that deserved more than a rush job.’

  The incident that triggered Jane’s rant is a report that Sophie wanted ready for this morning. Apparently the report was needed for a board meeting that Jane didn’t seem to know about.

  ‘I was just going to bed when I got her email. I had to turn around and go downstairs and spend a couple of hours importing historical data and statistical assumptions, fleshing out the best- and worst-case scenarios … Exactly what you need late on a Sunday night! Then, just as my brain was getting foggy from all the numbers, there was a cry from upstairs: “Mum.” I thought it was another nightmare … the girls seem to be going through a phase. They never call for their father. They haven’t worked out that he’s considerably larger than me, and if there are monsters under the bed he’s obviously the one to call for help …’

  Jane pauses, finally, to fork some food into her mouth. She looks extremely pale. Zara, her youngest, had a vomiting bug, not a nightmare. Poor Jane was up most of the night with her.

  ‘You’re looking peaky,’ I tell her. ‘I hope you’re not coming down with the same bug as Zara.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘To be honest, some sick leave would be a relief – a break from Sophie … She must be the same with you, right? I bet she thinks she owns you.’

  Sophie is exacting to work for, but I’ve also found her to be quite reasonable. Her manner is businesslike, very direct and clear, and I quite like that … I know where I stand. Some of her workload eats into the days I’m meant to reserve for Peter, but I’ve been able to manage. I’ve made a conscious effort to focus on the here and now, rather than ancient history from school, and so far, it’s been fine.

  ‘She’s been OK, actually …’

  Jane pushes away her half-eaten plate of food. ‘Maybe I should resign,’ she says with a dramatic flourish of her hand. ‘I almost did, last October, when she came back the first time. I even typed up a draft resignation letter when the reality of working for her again became too overwhelming: the constant deadlines and stress, never being able to trust that my family time was not about to be interrupted or completely hijacked. Then she collapsed, was carted off on a stretcher, and the problem went away.’

  Now she is being downright callous. I’ve heard from other people what happened when Sophie collapsed. Apparently she was out cold on the kitchen floor – they had to call an ambulance. It was all very dramatic. Paramedics circling around her on the floor, the stretcher being carried through the office, some of the staff (especially the graduates, who are really just kids) getting upset.

  Jane continues obliviously. ‘The first thing I did after she was gone – while everyone else was still standing around talking about whether she would be OK, and how we should have a whip-round to send some flowers – was to rush back to my desk, open up the draft of my letter of resignation and press the delete button.’

  I feel uncomfortable talking about Sophie like this. As though her collapse was something to celebrate.

  ‘Do any of yours play soccer?’ I ask, in a blatant attempt to change the topic of conversation.

  ‘Lily does. They’ve just started training. Mick is the coach this year.’

  Lily is the middle of Jane’s three girls, Zara is the oldest, and Madison is the baby (my favourite story about Madison is her first swimming carnival, when she was overly optimistic about her swimming abilities and had to be rescued by the lifeguard halfway through the fifty-metres freestyle). Jane had her girls late, and they’re all quite close in age. I know a lot about her kids because that’s what we used to talk about before Sophie came back to work: how special and talented and terrible (some of the time) our children are, and trivia about sicknesses and behaviour and schools. With everyone else, I need to watch what I say. They’re all very polite and always enquire about my children, but they expect a one-line response, nothing more, and I have to be perpetually careful not to overdo it. With Jane, I don’t have to rein myself in. Neither of us can remember what life was like before our children existed. I find myself gazing at my younger colleagues in bafflement and harbouring nanny-like thoughts: Why on earth are you wearing so much make-up? Those heels you’re teetering around in are going to wreck your back. Are yo
u really going out again tonight? I vacillate between being intensely envious of their freedom and pitying them for their shallow, purposeless lives. Jane is exactly the same. I don’t know who she used to talk to before I started at Real Cover.

  ‘How much are Lily’s soccer fees?’ Maybe I’ve chosen a particularly expensive club for the boys. I should have done some research before registering them.

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Mick takes care of that stuff.’

  Mick is Jane’s husband. He’s an electrician and works mainly in the building trade. I get the impression that Jane’s salary is more than his but, with two incomes, I imagine that Lily’s soccer fees are no big deal.

  Jane’s phone begins to ring. She glances down at it. ‘It’s her. Jesus Christ, her ears must be burning.’ She turns off the phone and throws it back on the table with unnecessary force. ‘Mick says I should tell her to get stuffed … He works hard, but when he clocks off, he clocks off. No after-hours calls or emails or expectations. If he needs to work overtime, it’s agreed weeks in advance and he’s paid double time. He doesn’t understand my job. Yeah, the salary is good, but not so great if averaged out over all the hours I put in.’

  Jane’s words are tumbling out on top of each other. I’ve never seen her so agitated, but I guess I haven’t known her that long, in the scheme of things. I reach across the table, put my hand over hers.

  ‘Breathe, Jane. You need to breathe …’

  That’s something I tell myself at night, when I’m trying to sleep and all my money problems are whirring around in my head.

  ‘That’s the problem, Hannah. I can’t breathe. Not when that pinched, disapproving face of hers is looking over my shoulder, judging me, finding me lacking, demanding more and more and more. Jesus Christ, I even dream about her at night.’

  ‘You’re overtired from being up with Zara … I bet things won’t seem so black tomorrow.’ She snorts at this. ‘Come on, we’d better get back.’