The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  And that’s my last thought as my desk comes rushing up to meet me.

  28

  Aidan

  Sophie’s recuperating on the couch, after sleeping most of the afternoon. John Greenland, the executive general manager, gave her a lift home. Apparently he popped into her office to check on something and found her slumped on her desk. When she came to, he refused to call her a taxi, insisting that he drive her home himself. I’m grateful to him. I hate the thought of her being weak and vulnerable like that, being at the mercy of some random taxi-driver.

  She was fast asleep when I came in from work, and I sat next to her for a while, watching her breathe and reminding myself of all the reasons I love her.

  It started with her first words to me. She had to take off her oxygen mask to talk, and that action made her words all the more startling and memorable. ‘I hope you’re here to say how fucking sorry you are.’

  I don’t know what I was expecting. Anger, definitely. Tears, quite likely. Some sort of forgiveness, if I was lucky. What I didn’t expect was to be challenged like that, to be put in my place. Those words were spoken by someone who was strong, feisty. Her chest had been ripped apart, she was on oxygen and drips and all sorts of drugs, but she wasn’t going to be weakened by any of that, she was going to hold me fully accountable, and she woke something up in me. You know that part of you that automatically responds when you meet a kindred spirit? Well, that’s what it was like that first time in the hospital. In fact, I could have easily said those same words had our roles been reversed. I know this girl. She is as familiar to me as my female colleagues. Tough, resilient, smart. Yet intriguingly different from them too.

  For reasons I couldn’t fully explain, I continued to visit her at the hospital. Yeah, I was largely driven by guilt and a desire to make good, but there was an attraction too, not that I was prepared to acknowledge it at the time. When Sophie spoke, she was articulate, precise and completely mesmerizing. She told me where she worked and what she did for a living, and it seemed the perfect job for her because it was evident, in the structure of her sentences, in that assessing stare of hers, that she was driven by logic. Those hospital visits – given the circumstances – should have been awkward, but they were far from that. I found myself looking forward to them, wondering what we would talk about, what direction our conversation would take. I discovered we had some things in common: both of us were practical, resourceful, ambitious, and we had a liking for routine and order and discipline. She laughed out loud when I sheepishly admitted that I was dux of my school too.

  Dux or not, Sophie is infinitely smarter than me. When we’re shopping, I ask her to add things up in her head, just because I enjoy watching her, the way she scrunches her face when she’s working something out. And it’s not just maths – Sophie is extremely well read and knowledgeable about many things: the capital cities of obscure countries, scientific tables from school, history, politics, music (classical music, that is – she finds my taste in popular music quite hilarious).

  I know she can be abrupt at times, and I would guess that she’s hard to work for. Smart people often are. Tough people always are. I should know. I’ve had some difficult bosses in my day, especially in those early years when I was low down in the pecking order. But the tougher the boss, the more respect they earn from the soldiers. And the tough ones were nearly always fair, like Sophie. I’m as stunned as she is by the complaint that’s been made against her. I could tell that something was bothering her as soon as she woke, that something had happened to cause this relapse. On my urging, she recounted everything: the claims of unfair dismissal, of harassment and discrimination. How she feels guilty even though she’s done nothing wrong. It’s the bullying thing that’s distressing her the most.

  ‘It wouldn’t happen in the army, would it?’ she sighs now.

  ‘Not a chance.’

  At various times over the last five years, when Chloe was having trouble conceiving and I was being moved from pillar to post, I considered leaving the army and trying to get a nine-to-five job in the corporate world. But when I hear things like this – the lack of order and reason, the lack of respect, the infighting and backstabbing – I know I wouldn’t last there. I would become too frustrated with all the petty conflicts, all the politics. Anyway, as Chloe used to say, I was too institutionalized to become a civilian.

  ‘Do you constantly take time off work for Jasmin? Do you go to every single one of her school ceremonies and sporting fixtures?’ She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘No, you don’t. Because if we all took that approach, there would be nobody at work, for God’s sake.’

  She’s right. I’ve never been involved with Jasmin’s various schools. Whenever there was something important on, I was either overseas or had drills or operations I couldn’t get out of. Actually, it’s something I regret: the fact that I’ve been so absent from that part of her life. But it’s difficult for Sophie to comprehend this. She doesn’t realize how much it means to kids to have someone there to clap and acknowledge their achievements.

  ‘I am not a bully,’ she says again.

  ‘I know … Hey, I wouldn’t love you if you were.’

  Chloe and I have wondered on and off if Jasmin’s sleeping troubles have been caused by bullying at school. She seems to have plenty of friends, she’s happy to go to school every day, and her teacher hasn’t noticed anything untoward, so we have no real evidence to go on. Bullying is notoriously hard to pin down, though. I’ve had a few cases come across my desk at work. Even in the most obvious case – a sergeant who intimidated a soldier so relentlessly that complaints were made by several witnesses – the perpetrator still didn’t believe he had done anything wrong.

  I’m about to stand up to make a start on dinner when Sophie puts her hand on my arm.

  ‘Aidan …’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘About Saturday … I know it’s your turn, but I don’t think I’m strong enough to have Jasmin here this weekend. I’m sorry.’

  No, that’s not how it works with kids.

  ‘Look, I know you feel crap but that shouldn’t impact on Jasmin. She’s not some box to be ticked, an opt-in or opt-out.’

  Her lips press together. ‘These are extenuating circumstances, Aidan. I passed out at work, for God’s sake. I need some time to recover.’

  She doesn’t get that kids are there on your bad days as well as your good days. When you are tired, fed up, disillusioned and sick, just as much as when you are happy, energetic and able to cope. I guess she’s used to being selfish, not having to see beyond her own needs.

  ‘Sophie, I know you need to rest, but Jasmin can’t be put off every time you don’t feel up to it. She needs consistency –’

  ‘Seriously, it’s just one weekend. That’s all I’m asking. Why are you making such a big deal about it?’

  I give in only because Sophie’s weak and upset and not in the right frame of mind to see that children, and one’s responsibilities to them, are a very big deal.

  ‘I’ll get the dinner on,’ I say, standing up.

  ‘I’m sorry I feel so tired,’ she calls after me. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Love you too,’ I reply, and I mean it wholeheartedly.

  This is all a huge learning curve for Sophie. She’s astute enough to know that I’ll be standing my ground the next time we have a disagreement about Jasmin.

  29

  Richard

  Milli reminds me of Sophie. This realization is a surprise, because they’re so different physically. Sophie was small and slight at this age, whereas Milli is tall and thickset. Sophie has delicate features and almost black hair, whereas Milli has a squarish (often mutinous) face under that deceiving halo of white-blonde curls. Yes, starkly different in looks and physicality, yet so similar in character. Determined, focused, tenacious.

  ‘Milli, don’t take Hugo’s toy. Give it back, sweetheart.’

  ‘No.’

  Milli, just like Sophie, will not be
swayed.

  ‘Be a good girl, now.’

  ‘No, Gwand. No. Noooo. No. Noooo.’

  That’s what she calls me: Gwand. Her mouth can’t quite manage the two syllables in ‘Grandpa’, or the ‘r’ sound. I like it. Gwand. Dee was right. It’s good to see more of the grandchildren. Once a week I drive up to Newcastle, and sometimes I stay overnight. I help where I can: gardening, jobs around the house that Carolyn has saved up for me, babysitting, in the main. Dee tries to come along too, but her hours at the shop have been fluctuating and she’s not always free.

  ‘Milli, give the toy to Gwand, and I’ll pass it to Hugo.’

  ‘No. No. Noooo.’ Milli decides that Hugo is too close for comfort and pushes him away. Her feistiness makes me want to laugh, but that would be setting a poor example. Hugo, who is used to being pushed around by his younger sister, steadies himself and barely complains.

  ‘Right, Milli. You know the rules. Do you want to go to the naughty step? Do you?’

  The naughty step is at the bottom of the stairs. The children are sent there for a one-minute time-out if they misbehave. They get three warnings, three chances to back down and make amends, then off they’re marched. You’d think they were being sent to a hellhole the way they scream and carry on. I don’t believe in naughty steps, or naughty corners, or any of that ridiculous newfangled parenting stuff, but if Carolyn catches me being lenient with the children I could well end up on the dreaded step myself, so I’d better stick to the bloody rules.

  ‘One … Two … Th—’

  At the very last minute Milli throws the toy on the floor. You’ve got to admire her gumption. She seems to know exactly how much to push the limits.

  ‘You’ll go far, Milli,’ I tell her. ‘You’ll go far.’

  She has no idea what I’m talking about, of course. No idea that she’s a natural leader who knows her own mind. No idea that she has an innate strength and confidence that people will defer to when she gets older. No idea that one day she will have a career and undoubtedly hold a position of authority – maybe chief executive of a major organization, or a headteacher, or a political leader. I used to play this game when Sophie was small, imagining what she would be when she grew up. I thought she could go all the way. Prime Minister, if that was what she wanted. She had the brains, the confidence, the work ethic to get there.

  Peace has been restored between Hugo and Milli when my phone rings in my pocket. It’s Dee.

  ‘Sophie … work …’

  ‘Sorry, Dee. I can’t hear you. The children are babbling. What did you say?’

  ‘I said Sophie isn’t well.’ Dee always sounds sterner when she has to repeat herself. ‘She had to come home from work … Apparently the head honcho gave her a lift.’

  ‘You mean John Greenland?’

  ‘I don’t know his name,’ Dee says, vague as usual.

  ‘John Greenland is a busy man – driving Sophie home would’ve been a major inconvenience. This is not good, Dee … Sophie’s been doing too much, pushing herself too far. She doesn’t know how to hold back. She never did, that’s the bloody problem. Now she’s had a relapse. Of course this was going to happen. Of course.’

  ‘Now don’t get upset, Richard …’

  Don’t get upset? Is she mad? Our daughter, who could have gone all the way to the top, is barely able to hold down a job at the moment. She is dangerously exhausted, spends her days off – which are a bloody joke, by the way – recuperating and trying to muster enough strength to face another week. It’s a vicious circle.

  ‘How is she now?’

  ‘She’s feeling better. Aidan said she had a good sleep and ate dinner.’

  ‘Bloody Aidan …’

  ‘Richard!’ Dee’s reprimand is so loud I have no trouble hearing it.

  ‘This is all his fault, Dee. All his fault. I hope the bastard ends up in prison. If there’s any justice –’

  ‘Richard! Stop it.’

  ‘I’m just giving my opinion, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, don’t give your opinion, thank you very much. We’re past that, do you hear me? They’re a couple now. You can’t go around saying things like that.’

  Dee is worried about me. She’s worried about my hearing (she’s booked me in for an ear test next week). She’s worried that I don’t have enough things to occupy my day (she wants me to join the local bowling club, despite the fact that I’ve never displayed the slightest interest in bowling). She’s worried that I might be depressed (I’ve told her that being chronically bored is quite different from being depressed). And she’s worried that I’m too involved in Sophie’s life, and too harsh on Aidan. I don’t care what she says, I cannot accept that man into our family. I just can’t. Not after what he’s done. Doesn’t matter how hard he tries to make up for it. Call me bitter, call me vengeful, call me anything you want, but he should have to face some consequences for the pain he’s caused. Losing his licence? Not enough. Helping Sophie around the house? Again, just not enough. The consequences must be severe – even prison seems too kind, but I’d settle for it – because what’s happened to Sophie is severe. I think the whole situation wouldn’t plague me so much if I could be guaranteed some justice.

  I don’t know, maybe I am a bit obsessed and depressed and Dee is right to be worried. It’s hard, that’s all. Really bloody hard. Just being with Milli – so young, so full of promise, so adoringly indomitable – makes me realize the full extent of what Sophie has lost: her health, her confidence, her career, her future. But, more than anything, she’s lost her strength.

  I have this question to ask: What can you become if you aren’t strong?

  Nothing, that’s what.

  Sophie, who could have been anything in the world she wanted to be, will end up nothing, a nobody. It’s enough to make a grown man cry.

  30

  Jasmin

  I’m not going to Daddy and Sophie’s this week. Daddy said we’re going with Plan B instead. He’ll pick me up after my soccer game tomorrow and then we’re going out for the afternoon. We’ll either do laser tag or some rock climbing, whichever I prefer. Laser tag, I think. Then we’ll have something to eat before he drops me home. Pizza, although Daddy might need to be persuaded. I hope he comes in when he drops me off and sits outside on the deck again, chatting with Mum.

  ‘Jasmin!’ Mum’s voice cuts in on my thoughts. ‘Are you listening to Matthew?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ I sit up straighter in my seat. Matthew’s eyes are looking straight into mine, as if he can see that I’ve just told a lie.

  ‘I believe it’s been a tough couple of weeks,’ he repeats.

  Yeah, it has been tough. Really, really, really tough. My sleeping problem has got way worse. I couldn’t stay in bed in Sophie’s house, even though I tried my hardest not to let Daddy down. Sophie got really annoyed and the next morning I could hear her and Daddy having an argument about me. Then I couldn’t stay in bed when Mum offered me the chance to get all my technology privileges back. Even worse, I got into trouble with Mrs Stanley today for not paying attention. I never get into trouble with Mrs Stanley. It’s just that my brain felt too fuzzy for maths and I had already gone to the toilets and the bubblers, so I was out of excuses and ways to wake myself up. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I fall asleep, like everyone else? The weird thing is, when I go to bed at first, I really believe I can stay there, and I’m tired, I really am. But then my body won’t stay still, and I toss and turn until I’m wide awake again and have to get up.

  Matthew clears his throat, reminding me to answer him.

  Too embarrassed to look at him, I stare at my feet instead. ‘I wish I could delete the last two weeks.’

  ‘How do you feel today?’

  ‘Tired … Stupid …’

  ‘Jasmin!’ Mum is cross. ‘Don’t say that. You are not stupid, OK?’

  I am stupid. I can’t fall asleep. I am the only person I know who doesn’t know how to do it. That makes me stupid.

  �
�I recorded her,’ Mum says. ‘When I was at my wits’ end, when I didn’t know what else to do, I got out my phone and recorded her. Do you want to see it?’

  When I look up, I see that Matthew is nodding. ‘Yes, I’d like to see. You OK with that, Jasmin?’

  I’m not OK with that. I’m angry and I’m even more embarrassed, and I’m lots of other things too: dismayed, appalled, sickened. Mum showed me the video the next morning when I came downstairs and said I was sorry (that’s what normally happens the next morning). My face was red, and I was crying and shouting and swaying. I was acting like a retard – I know that’s not a nice word, but I can’t think of any other word that describes how bad I was.

  Matthew is still staring at me, waiting for my permission. I don’t want him to watch it. I think he likes me, but he won’t after seeing that video. Crying like a baby, shouting at my mum. But part of me wants him to see it so he can understand how bad I get, and maybe then he’ll know how to help me. So I nod, and look down at my shoes again – one of my laces has come undone – while Mum fiddles with her phone before handing it to Matthew.

  My voice fills the office, high and whingeing. Matthew’s probably as shocked as I was. It sounds dumb, but I had no idea I was that awful. The next night I tried to remember the video, to make myself stay in bed, but it only worked for a little while.

  Matthew gives the phone back to Mum. ‘Thanks for that. It was very helpful.’

  Then he gets up from his seat and opens the cupboard behind his desk. It’s full of brightly coloured toys.

  He turns to face me, a purple, cushion-like thing in his hand. ‘Here, Jasmin. Put this on for a while.’

  He drapes the cushion around my neck. It’s heavy.

  ‘What is it?’ Mum and I ask at exactly the same time.

  ‘It’s a weighted cape.’

  ‘What does it do?’ Mum is frowning, as if the cape is something bad.

  ‘It’s used in autism sensory-integration therapy. It provides deep-pressure sensory input –’