The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  ‘Autism? Are you saying Jasmin is autistic?’

  I don’t exactly know what ‘autistic’ means but, judging from Mum’s voice, it isn’t good.

  ‘Not at all,’ Matthew says, and I feel very relieved. I’ll ask Mum later what ‘autistic’ is, just so I know, even though I don’t have it. ‘But her state of agitation in the video – the twitching and jerking and rocking – is not dissimilar to the symptoms of autism. The cape promotes self-calming through proprioceptive feedback.’

  Mum glares at him. ‘Proprioceptive what? I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what any of this means. Can you just tell me, in plain English, please … Do you know what’s wrong with Jasmin?’

  He puts up his hands, as though to say, Slow down. ‘Look, Chloe, you know that I don’t like to make snap diagnoses. Let’s just say there’s a certain area that I want to look closer at now I’ve seen the video, especially when I consider it in conjunction with the sensory analysis we did way back at the start –’

  ‘And what is that area?’ Mum interrupts again. She’s being a bit rude – she would kill me if I didn’t let someone finish speaking like that. ‘Just tell me. I’m going mad here.’

  She does look a bit crazy. My sleeping problem has done this to her.

  Matthew is very calm, by comparison. ‘It’s sensory-processing disorder. I’ll need to refer Jasmin to a physiotherapist who specializes in the area … I’ll write you a referral now.’

  The office is strangely quiet in the next few minutes, the time it takes Matthew to type up the referral – a letter of some sort – on his computer. He calls out some suburbs to Mum, trying to find out which one is closest to where we live so he can find a physiotherapist nearby. One of the boys in my soccer team had to see a physiotherapist when he hurt his ankle. I thought they took care of broken bones and sore muscles. Have I broken something I don’t know about?

  Sensory processing disorder.

  When we get home Mum will go straight on the computer and google it. Then she’ll ring Daddy (because he couldn’t come with us today) and tell him everything she’s found out. Later on she’ll give me a simplified version, as though I’m not capable of understanding to the same level as Daddy.

  This is my problem. I want to know the full truth, not some baby version. Maybe I’ll google it myself. I’m smarter than she thinks.

  I just hope it isn’t bad. I just really, really, really hope they can cure me.

  31

  Hannah

  It’s been two weeks since I asked Sophie for a pay increase, and those two weeks have been hell. The phone calls never stop, any time up to eleven at night, and starting again from six in the morning. Every waking hour, actually. Most of the time they’re unnecessary. There’s no emergency, only Sophie’s lack of patience and complete disregard for my family life. Flipping heck, I can’t even look forward to a reprieve on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when she’s supposed to be at home and I should be concentrating on Peter’s work. If anything, she’s more relentless on those days, and sometimes she even turns up at the office, catching me off guard.

  I’ve been thinking more and more about Jane and feeling guilty that I didn’t understand quite how much pressure she was under. This is exactly how she felt. Resentful. Harassed. Powerless. This is what made her snap. I can see now how it happened because I’ve fantasized about handing in my resignation. But that’s all it is: a fantasy. I need this job as much as ever, so for now I’ll have to be at Sophie’s beck and call, and put up with whatever she throws at me. I keep telling myself that it’ll be fine, that it’ll all work out OK, that things will improve when we find a replacement for Jane. And I’ve got to believe that. It’s the only way I can cope.

  It’s the start of another working week and everything feels like a chore: dragging myself out of bed, getting the kids ready for school, catching the bus to the city, buying Sophie’s skinny latte from the café across the road. I arrive in her office dispirited and aggrieved. She looks up from her computer screen and beams at me.

  ‘Good news, Hannah. I’ve put in an application to have your role regraded to Administration Assistant Level 2. I’m waiting for John Greenland’s approval, but I don’t expect any issues – he generally goes with my recommendations.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I set down her morning coffee on her desk with a smile that’s prompted by both surprise and gratitude. I had kept my expectations low, so this is good news, even though I’m not sure what it means in terms of cold, hard cash. I’m reluctant to ask for fear of sounding ungrateful.

  ‘The midpoint salary is $7,500 more than what you’re currently on,’ she says, and I’m thankful for that practical side of her, that she calls things as they are and doesn’t beat around the bush. $7,500: not enough to stabilize my finances but enough to give me hope that once a few months’ worth has trickled through to my bank account, it will ease some of the pressure.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say again.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She pauses, and I think that’s it, my cue to leave, when she adds, ‘I saw in your file that you went to St Brigid’s.’

  Heat fills my face. Flipping heck! Thirty years old and still blushing like a schoolgirl. Talk about making myself look guilty. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I went there too … I was in the year above you, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I say, trying, belatedly, to be in some way honest, because she obviously thinks it’s odd that I haven’t mentioned this before now. She had such a high profile at school, she would expect to be remembered. ‘I half recognized you when I first met you but I missed the moment to say anything. You know how that happens?’ Her nod is almost imperceptible. ‘And then it feels irrelevant to bring it up afterwards.’

  There’s another silence. Once again, I’m at the point of leaving when she speaks, stalling me.

  ‘Do you keep in touch with any of the girls?’ Her smile is so forced it looks like it’s hurting her. Maybe I am imagining things.

  I shake my head. ‘I lost touch pretty quickly. I went to the UK for a gap year – that’s when I met Harry. A year turned into two, and when we came back here we lived on the other side of the city … Then I got pregnant, which was as good as putting me on another planet. No, I don’t see any of them … Do you?’

  ‘A few.’ Her response sounds exceptionally abrupt, even for her. After a long pause, she adds, ‘It was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Feels like a completely different life.’

  For a moment I’m transported back. The light-blue cotton blouse that always felt too tight around the neck. The knee-length A-line skirt that was so unfashionable. The assemblies, the much-hated double-science classes, the dreaded PE lesson every Wednesday afternoon. I didn’t love it, but I didn’t hate it either. Not until that maths camp in Year 11, which seemed to tarnish everything that went before and after. Now my overriding feelings about St Brigid’s can be summed up with a great big question mark.

  I could easily say, Do you remember the camp we went on? The maths one? Years 11 and 12 together?

  But of course I’m not going to say that. For the same reason I didn’t tell her I went to St Brigid’s in the first place. All it would take is a few further questions and my face would give me away. She would know, then. She would know that I know something, although I am still, to this day, not sure what it is that I know, other than the fact that she’s a liar.

  ‘Yeah, a different life indeed,’ I agree, my words starkly different from what’s running through my head. ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely, though, to keep to school hours, to clock off at three thirty? Or the holidays … Who wouldn’t love eight weeks off over summer?’

  She’s laughing as I leave her office. Back at my desk I start my working week, reading emails, catching up on paperwork and making a Herculean effort to dwell on the here and now and not on what happened at maths camp more than fourteen years ago.

  It turns out to be one of those days when I’m pulled in opposite directions by the demands of my two bos
ses. Peter usually takes the back seat, allowing Sophie to dominate, but not today. He has a valid reason: a major bid response that’s due and one key member of staff off sick. Sophie maintains that her need for me is just as urgent, and the pay rise seems to have made her extra possessive with regards to how my time is split. The tug of war culminates in terse words as the two of them go head to head in front of my desk. Sophie eventually gives in – there is nothing more important than a bid response, after all – but she is like a petulant child for the rest of the day.

  Much later I arrive home to face another battlefield. There’s a letter in Callum’s school bag, asking me to make an appointment to see his teacher.

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me. You must have done something. Have you been respectful? Have you been trying hard? Are you nice to the other kids?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t shout.’

  ‘I’m shouting because you always think it’s something bad.’

  In the middle of this heated exchange there’s a knock on the door. Finn, who has been unusually quiet and obviously knows exactly what this proposed teacher meeting is about, goes to answer it.

  ‘It’s one of the neighbours,’ he calls out from the hallway.

  ‘I’m not finished with you,’ I warn Callum before going to see who it is.

  It’s that man, Mr Fastidious. His hands are clasped behind his back, and his head is jutted forward so he can peer into our hallway, into our lives, undoubtedly noting all the discarded shoes and sporting equipment and making judgements. What does he want? My washing has been hung out on the communal lines since early this morning, and once I’ve finished this argument with Callum I’ll go and retrieve it. Does he have something else to complain about? Of course he does. Complaining is his hobby.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘The noise.’ He holds one hand to his mouth as he coughs. ‘It would be great if you could keep it down.’

  It’s too much, after the day I’ve had.

  ‘You know what would be really great? If you could go and get a life, that’s what.’ Even the door is refusing to cooperate with me: it slams rather than shuts, the bang so loud it feels like it has reverberated through the entire apartment block.

  Finn and Callum burst out laughing as I burst into tears.

  ‘Stop laughing … It isn’t funny. That was extremely rude of me. Now I’ll have to say sorry to him.’

  I whip open the door, ready to apologize, because we were being loud, and there is no excuse for bad manners, but he is gone, out of sight.

  ‘Oh God. Now I’m sure I’ve breached some other flipping by-law.’

  The boys start laughing again.

  ‘Come on, Mum. Stop stressing. It’s cool.’

  It’s not cool. And it’s not funny. Where is their respect? I must do better with them. I have to do better, be tougher, set boundaries, or there will be many more letters from school.

  ‘Stop laughing. Stop it. Now.’ The laundry basket is among the array of items clogging up the hallway. I pick it up, thrust it at Callum – the one who’s laughing the hardest, the one who’ll always be more susceptible to getting into trouble and who needs a good example set. ‘Go and get the washing from the line. Both of you. Don’t look so stunned. Hurry up.’

  I’ll give them more chores, that’s what I’ll do. And once and for all, I’m going to put time limits on how much TV they watch. There are going to be changes around here. Starting now. Starting with me.

  They’re late going to bed, and it’s later again by the time I sit down with a glass of wine. I try not to drink too much during the week. There’s the cost, for a start, and let’s face it, someone in my predicament, drinking alone … it can be a slippery slope.

  The wine has the desired effect. Calm creeps over me. My thoughts begin to assemble.

  Mr Fastidious. An apology is owed and will be delivered, with the boys as witnesses.

  Callum. A long discussion with his teacher, and maybe the school counsellor too. Do I worry too much? Should I have more faith in him, in the young man he can become? He will change, of course he will. He isn’t set in stone, he can develop into an open and positive young man, I know he can. That’s part of the journey of life, right? People changing, growing, evolving as they get older and wiser. I am not the same person I was at school. Neither – I hope – is Sophie McCarthy.

  It’s harder to assemble my thoughts when it comes to Sophie.

  The pay rise. I’m sincerely grateful to her for that, I really am. The application to HR would have taken time and thought on her part, and because it was outside normal procedures she would’ve had to fight my corner. It proves that she’s not all bad. Yes, she’s extremely difficult to work for. She harasses me, pressures me, demands nothing short of excellence from me, as she did with Jane. And let’s be realistic, the pay rise is her licence to be even more demanding and possessive. But that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s an evil person, does it?

  The fact is, people are complicated. They can have conflicting facets (Harry being the perfect example … but my head can’t go there right now). Sophie’s meticulousness and hard-work ethic is one part of her. The fact that she can be an outright bully at times is another. But there’s obviously generosity and empathy in there too, and that’s a good thing, a positive thing.

  The girl she was at school. How much of that girl is left in today’s Sophie? Does it even matter? I caught her out in a lie. A gigantic lie. But the truth is, I am not a hundred per cent certain of even that, so what’s the point in driving myself crazy over a question mark?

  I’m confused. Sophie McCarthy has always confused me. I’ve never known what to think of her. Not then. Not now.

  32

  Dee

  This is what happened at the school, or, to be specific, the school camp. There was an accident, and a girl got injured, badly injured. It was awful, terribly upsetting for everyone involved: all the Year 11 and 12 kids at the camp, the parents and the wider school community, and the poor girl and her family, obviously.

  Sophie was distraught. The first I knew was when I went to pick her up from the bus. I could tell straight away, from her red eyes, that she’d been crying. I assumed it was something trivial. Not enough sleep, someone who had been unkind, maybe even a touch of homesickness.

  ‘Kristina Owens fell,’ she began, and starting sobbing.

  ‘What, sweetheart? Kristina who? What happened?’

  ‘She fell from the ledge. We were orienteering. I was with her. She was just ahead of me.’

  It was the first time I had heard the girl’s name, Kristina Owens. Richard, though, knew exactly who she was.

  ‘She’s the tall, gangly girl. You should know her, Dee. Strawberry-blonde hair? She’s smart, always gets awards at the school ceremonies. It’s usually her and Sophie on the stage together.’

  I didn’t know her, much to his amazement. I never took notice of who got what award, not in the way Richard did. He would keep a running commentary throughout the ceremonies.

  ‘She got that writing award last year too … Mmm … that’s an interesting choice. I wouldn’t have picked her for that … I would have thought Sophie would have been in the running for that one.’

  In my view, Sophie was a very fortunate girl. She always got at least one award at those end-of-year ceremonies, but that never seemed enough for Richard. He wanted her to blitz it, for her name to be the one that was announced the most frequently. Sophie McCarthy, star of the show. I prefer to see these things shared around. One child shouldn’t be made to feel superior to everyone else. And what about the kids who never get anything? Kids like Jacob, who performed solidly but never shone enough to be recognized, to have his name put on a plaque or a certificate.

  Anyway, I’m digressing. The point is that Richard knew who Kristina was straight away, whereas I didn’t have a clue. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so shocked by the accusations that
followed if I’d known who she was: Sophie’s rival.

  ‘Thank you for coming in, Mr and Mrs McCarthy.’ I remember thinking that the headmistress – Mrs Jones – looked exactly right for the role: her silver-grey hair cut in a no-nonsense bob, her light-blue blouse and navy skirt quite similar in style to the school uniform, and her tone of voice so unyielding that I felt myself sit a little straighter in my seat. ‘We have some rather serious allegations we need to discuss. It’s not the first time we’ve had two girls providing different versions of the facts, and it’s probably not the last, but given the injuries sustained by Kristina Owens – broken leg, hip and collarbone, concussion – this is a very serious matter, and the school, and possibly the police, must investigate it thoroughly.’

  Richard immediately jumped in. ‘Sophie saw it all, if that’s what you need to know. Kristina was too close to the edge. She was trying to see over –’

  ‘Mr McCarthy, I’m quite aware of Sophie’s version of events. The reason you are here today is that it differs from what Kristina says. Kristina is quite adamant that she didn’t lose her balance … According to her, she was pushed.’

  Richard jerked forward in his seat. ‘Pushed? By who?’

  Mrs Jones looked down at her notes. It seemed to take ages before she looked up again, meeting our eyes in turn. ‘By your daughter, Mr and Mrs McCarthy. By Sophie.’

  I felt automatically guilty, as though Sophie had done it – pushed the girl – and we – me and Richard and even Jacob – were all in some way responsible.

  Richard was as shocked as I was, but it seemed to have the opposite effect on him. While I had completely lost my tongue, he – normally a relatively quiet man – had found his. He was furious, as angry as I have ever seen him. ‘That’s preposterous … ridiculous … My daughter was the one who climbed down to help. She was very distressed by what happened. I cannot believe she is being accused like this. This is defamatory. I will sue –’