The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  Aidan, unfortunately, didn’t see my point. ‘How would you feel if I locked you in your bedroom at night? It wouldn’t matter what things you had with you. That sense of being trapped, of having no control, knowing you can’t get out. I know how that feels, Sophie. In Afghanistan I was –’

  ‘And I know how it feels too,’ I cut in, not interested in the war story. ‘I spent two months bedridden in hospital, remember? And it was cruel, but I got on with it and I survived.’

  I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. I could almost see the guilt gushing into Aidan, dragging down the corners of his eyes, his mouth, his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. Listen, you’re Jasmin’s dad. You make the decisions, not me. I’m just giving an outsider’s view, nothing more.’ I held out my arms, inviting his hug and the end of the argument. ‘Love you, OK? … Now I’m just going to have a quick shower to wake myself up.’

  By the time I was showered and dressed the kitchen was a hub of activity. Aidan was preparing breakfast and Jasmin was laying the table. She was deathly pale, her eyes red and gritty. Even her hands seemed to have a tremor. She was like one of those scare advertisements: this is what happens when you don’t get enough sleep.

  ‘I’m sorry about last night, Sophie,’ she said, without delay.

  ‘OK,’ I replied, even though it was far from OK.

  ‘I’m sorry I ruined your documentary.’

  Jasmin looked genuinely regretful, very close to tears, and I felt a stab of sympathy for her.

  ‘Never mind the documentary,’ I said, injecting a cheerful note into my voice. ‘What’s for brekkie?’

  On Monday morning I can still feel the effects of Saturday night. I’m quite exhausted when I wake up for work. Weekends are my down time, the only opportunity for my body to recover from the strain it endures during the week. A proper night’s sleep, an undemanding environment, that’s all I need. And Aidan knows this. He knows perfectly well how wrecked I am by the end of the week, and what it takes to rally myself for the week ahead. I can’t sustain a Jasmin performance every second weekend. Aidan knows this, just as I know that he’s conflicted by his responsibilities to me and to Jasmin.

  I’m not long in my office when Hannah appears with my morning coffee. ‘What age are your twins, again?’ I ask her, taking the lid off the takeaway cup and letting some of the steam escape.

  ‘They’ve just turned ten.’

  ‘You had them young,’ I comment, carefully sipping the scalding coffee, hoping the caffeine will do its job and perk me up.

  ‘Yes, I did.’ She shrugs. ‘It just happened that way.’

  Hannah’s a year younger than me. I found this out a few weeks ago, when it came up in conversation, and it surprised me. She has a weary, harassed air about her, one which busy mothers seem to specialize in. Make-up and jewellery are kept to a bare minimum: there clearly isn’t the time or the imagination or maybe the money. Peter told me she’s a widow, and I presume it’s tough raising two boys on your own. Hannah doesn’t speak about it, though, and I respect that. I detest hearing the minutiae of my colleagues’ personal lives, their partners’ shortcomings – they never have good things to say about their husbands or wives – and their gifted children.

  ‘What time do your boys go to bed?’ I ask, breaking my own rules this once.

  ‘Eight thirty.’ Hannah grins before adding, ‘Thereabouts.’

  ‘Do they take long to fall asleep?’

  She smiles again. She looks younger when she smiles. I suppose we all do.

  ‘Not really. Ten, fifteen minutes. They play hard, fight hard and sleep hard … Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, because of my partner’s daughter. She stayed with us on Saturday night. Getting her to sleep was a nightmare.’

  ‘Maybe it was the new environment?’

  ‘No. Apparently she’s always like that …’

  ‘You could try some relaxing music, or a hot bath?’

  ‘I’m tempted to try a good old-fashioned smack,’ I say with a laugh. ‘But that’s obviously a no-no.’

  ‘Wicked-stepmother territory,’ she laughs back.

  Well, if Hannah’s boys are good sleepers, then it’s unlikely she can enlighten me on what the problem is with Jasmin. I put down my coffee cup and train my eyes on my screen. Time to start work.

  Unfortunately, Hannah doesn’t take the hint and lingers. ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Actually, there’s something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘What?’ It’s almost nine o’clock. This is what I get for starting a conversation.

  ‘Sorry.’ Her voice has a slight wobble. Is she nervous? ‘Look, I know that first thing on Monday morning isn’t an ideal time to be asking a question like this. But seeing as we were chatting anyway, I thought I’d bring it up …’

  ‘Bring what up?’ I can hear the impatience in my voice.

  ‘My pay. I was wondering if you would consider a review.’

  ‘You mean a pay increase?’

  ‘Yes.’ She flushes. ‘You see, I started here at an entry-level position, but my responsibilities have expanded since Jane left. I think my job should be classified at a higher level. Also, I hope I’ve proved myself by now, and that my work is worthy of a higher hourly rate.’

  Hannah’s right. Monday morning isn’t the ideal time to be discussing such matters. She should have waited for her performance review, or made a special appointment with me to discuss this. But as she stands there in front of me, her face looking so much older than mine, wearing those chain-store clothes, along with an air of desperation that makes me suspect that her husband left her in a difficult financial situation, I can’t help but be moved by how vulnerable she is.

  ‘I’ll review it and let you know the outcome. Now, can you please close the door on your way out?’

  25

  Chloe

  Consequences don’t work. They didn’t work before, and they don’t work now. I don’t know why I allowed Matthew to convince me otherwise. Our next appointment isn’t until late next week, but we can’t hang on until then. We’re at breaking point. Good Lord, even Aidan was rattled when he dropped her off on Sunday. He came in for a coffee, and we sat on the back deck and talked. Aidan had tears in his eyes, and seeing that made me even more emotional, and more at a loss about how to fix this.

  ‘I was hoping for too much,’ he said. ‘I thought that something as simple as being in a different place could fix it.’

  ‘I had a dreadful night without her … I couldn’t stop worrying, didn’t sleep a wink.’

  Aidan’s eyes locked with mine, as though he could see the misery of that night on my own, without my daughter, without my husband, without even a friend living in the same state as me who could drop round with a bottle of wine and the right mix of sympathy and pull-yourself-together tactics. One thing that had become clear was that I needed to think about my future, what I was going to do with my life. I have a degree in fashion and textiles, and work experience in retail and styling. For the last nine years there seemed little point in going back to work, not when there could be another baby at any moment. Moving house all those times also took its toll. It fell to me to make the transition smooth, to provide stability, and it seemed the only way to do that was by staying at home. Then along came the problems with Jasmin’s sleeping, which left me too tired and dispirited to even think about my career. But one night of being completely on my own, in an achingly empty house, had brought things into sharp perspective. Something else was needed in my life. Something to sustain me when I was on my own. Something to give direction, fulfilment, distraction, an extra purpose.

  ‘The first time was always going to be the hardest,’ Aidan continued. ‘But you need a break, Chlo, to keep up your strength, because you’re the one who has to deal with this all week long. Somehow, we have to persevere.’

  Neither of us said anything for a while. Aidan felt so close in that silence, and yet so pain
fully distant. More than anything I wanted to reach out and touch him. His bare arm beckoned to me. The stubble on his jaw taunted my fingers to brush over it. For a while I became fixated on his knee. Why couldn’t I rest my hand on the denim? Just briefly? To show I cared? To ease the craving I had for him? It was just the two of us, on the deck of this house where we’d lived longer than any of the other houses, where we’d sat many times before, but never with this hopeless sadness, this horrible distance. Jasmin was in her room. She’d shut herself away almost as soon as she’d walked through the front door.

  Then one of us – I can’t remember if it was me or him – resurrected the conversation, and we talked about our fears for Jasmin, where this would all end up, what kind of life she would have if she couldn’t get this problem under control. Even though what we were talking about was dreadfully upsetting, it was intimate too, and there were moments when I could fool myself into believing that I had my husband back. The only difference was that vital lack of touch. Not once did he reach out. No hug, no pat: nothing. I longed for it, the warmth of his touch, the roughness of his calloused hands, the weight of his arm across my shoulders. My eyes followed his mouth as he spoke; I was shamelessly fantasizing about him kissing me, suddenly and hard.

  ‘What do we do from here?’ he asked.

  I sighed. ‘I don’t know what else to do other than stick to Matthew’s plan. Keep going with the consequences until the next appointment, and then review the situation. I can’t think of anything else. Can you?’

  ‘No, no, I can’t.’

  But that was Sunday, and this is Thursday. Jasmin has now lost technology privileges for a whole month, and is still getting out of bed over and over again. It hasn’t worked. If anything, it’s made things worse; it has dragged the misery into our daytime. Jasmin is bored, withdrawn and resentful because of the lost privileges.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ryan, he’s with another client,’ the receptionist informs me, not unsympathetically, when I phone Matthew’s office.

  ‘Please tell him it’s urgent,’ I plead. ‘I really need to speak to him today.’

  Matthew calls back later in the afternoon, and just hearing his voice is enough to make me break down completely. ‘It’s been dreadful … a disaster … She’s miserable … I’m miserable. Losing technology is just one more thing for her to worry about, and it’s stressing her out when I need her to stay calm. It’s just not working, Matthew. I’m sorry for calling you like this, I know you have other clients, but we can’t last another day, let alone another week.’

  His response is the other extreme to me: calm and measured. ‘It’s all right, Chloe … So it’s not working. I believe you, OK? You don’t need to convince me any further.’

  Silence fills the line. I take a deep breath, and then another. It’s as if I’m breathing the silence, drawing it into me. My thoughts become more organized. More coherent.

  ‘Matthew, did you ever get into trouble at school for something you didn’t do? Something that was accidental, out of your control?’

  ‘I’m sure I did.’ He sounds amused. ‘Many times.’

  ‘Me too, and I remember how unfair it felt. I think this is something similar for Jasmin. She’s being punished for something that’s out of her control. That’s why she feels so resentful.’

  ‘You could be right …’ Matthew is pensive, as though his mind has gone off in a different direction. ‘Listen, Chloe, do you think you have the strength to try one more thing?’

  I’m absolutely sure I don’t have the strength. ‘What is it you want to try?’

  ‘Making the technology a reward rather than a consequence … This is what I think we should do. Tell Jasmin that all her technology privileges will be reinstated if she can stay in bed tonight. Just one night, that’s all that’s required, and she gets everything back. I want to see if she can do it.’

  ‘She won’t be able to do it,’ I say with certainty.

  ‘I think you’re right. But it’s worth a try. She misses her iPad and the TV, so there’s a strong motivation there. And it’s not as if she has to perform for a whole week … one night is all we’re asking.’

  He’s doing it again, talking me into something that won’t work. But what’s my plan of action for tonight? What else is there left to try? And what’s one more night of misery in the scheme of things?

  ‘One night,’ I hear myself agreeing. ‘Anyway, it’s not as if it can make things any worse than they already are.’

  It’s almost school pick-up time when I get off the phone. I hide my red eyes and blotchy face under big sunglasses and head out. It’s a fifteen-minute, mostly flat walk to the school, and I’m startled to discover it’s a lovely day outside. The heat from the autumn sun is gentle and restoring, and by the time I get to the school grounds I have regained my composure and some – albeit small – level of hope. Another mother whose name evades me – Lisa? Aleisha? Elisa? – sidles up, and we chat until the bell trills through our lightweight conversation.

  Kids emerge from all directions. There’s Jasmin, with Hannah’s boys. The twins are bouncing a soccer ball between them, shouting and laughing and full of life. Jasmin seems lethargic by comparison, ignoring the ball and the conversation.

  She spots me and trudges in my direction.

  ‘Hello, darling. How was your day?’

  ‘OK,’ she mutters.

  This isn’t the Jasmin I know. The girl who talks incessantly, her words gushing out and sometimes tripping her up. What work they did in class. What marvellous games were played at lunchtime. Who got into trouble with the teacher, who was praised and got an encouragement award. This sullen disengaged child is like a stranger to me.

  ‘I talked to Matthew today,’ I say as we walk away from the chaos, through the gate and past the dogs who have come to school as part of their daily walk but must wait outside the grounds.

  Jasmin casts me a wary glance. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘He made a suggestion. A good one, I think.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can have all your privileges restored if you stay in bed tonight.’

  Her face immediately brightens. ‘I won’t lose technology for a month?’

  ‘Not if you stay in bed. Just for tonight. That’s all. Think you can manage it?’

  ‘Yeess … Really, Mum? I can have my iPad tomorrow? And TV?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Hooray!’ She punches a fist in the air.

  Well, that’s a good first reaction, but I’m a long way from being as optimistic as she is.

  ‘Bye, Finn!’ she suddenly yells out. ‘Bye, Callum!’

  Up in front of us, the twins are in the process of getting into a battered-looking hatchback. An older woman holds out the door while they scramble inside.

  ‘Stop it, boys. Behave yourselves,’ she commands, to what seem to be deaf ears.

  It must be Hannah’s mother. Should I stop and say hello?

  Before I can decide, she has slammed the door shut and gone around the other side of the car.

  Hannah has been on my mind this week. Her outburst after the game, her raw grief as we sat in the café, her face swollen from a combination of embarrassment and tears. I did what I could to comfort her, but there was little I could offer other than to listen and be there.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, blowing her nose on one of the table napkins. ‘You’ve been very kind. Your husband’s not waiting back at the field, is he? I’m so sorry. I –’

  ‘My husband and I split up a few months ago,’ I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact but failing miserably. Then I was honest with her. ‘I’m devastated about it, actually. It was dreadfully hard today, standing next to him at the game. Him being there but not being there, if you know what I mean. I know it’s not as tragic as what happened to you, but I think I understand some of what you feel. The loneliness. The disorientation. The sadness every time I look at Jasmin and think of the impact on her.’

  We have the potential to
be good friends, Hannah and me. There’s no retreating after a conversation like that. We can only go forward, and stand united on the sidelines, where all the other parents seem so happily coupled.

  At home, we have a fairly ordinary afternoon. Jasmin reads her book, goes outside to kick her ball against the wall, does some spelling homework, kicks her ball again, tackles some maths, then has dinner. Next we start the lead-up to bedtime: a card game with me, a hot bath, some more reading time.

  ‘I’m going to stay in bed, Mum,’ she declares when I tuck her in.

  ‘Of course you are, darling,’ I reply, mimicking her confidence.

  Downstairs, I turn on the TV and make myself comfortable on the couch. Then the loneliness hits. This is the hardest time of the day, when I’m brutally reminded that Aidan doesn’t live here any more. He is not going to stretch out next to me on the couch, he is not going to debate what programmes we watch, and he is not going to step in and deal with Jasmin when she gets out of bed.

  Don’t expect the worst of Jasmin, I berate myself. Believe in her. Believe that she can do it.

  For a while it’s looking remarkably good. There’s a home-renovation show on the telly and I lose myself in it for little periods of time. Then, at the thirty-minute mark, I hear the tell-tale thump of her feet hitting the floor. But she doesn’t appear. Has she got back into bed?

  I’m getting caught up in the plight of the home renovators. Structural damage, rising damp, dodgy electrical work … it’s a disaster. It’s been almost an hour now. I can still hear intermittent sounds from upstairs. She’s trying, really trying, but she’s still wide awake in there. For pity’s sake, she might as well come out, get it over with. As though reading my mind, she does exactly that. I hear her door, her footsteps on the stairs, and next thing she’s in front of me, as distraught as she’s ever been.