The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  ‘I can assure you that this is not defamatory in any way. Nobody else in the school knows what Kristina has said …’

  ‘Try convincing our lawyer of that!’

  ‘Richard!’ I cried, finding my voice. Threatening legal action was hardly helping the situation. ‘Mrs Jones, you say the girl – Kristina – had concussion. I am not sure you can give any weight to her recollection of what happened. All I can tell you is that my daughter was genuinely upset and I find it impossible to believe that she was in any way responsible. She is not a violent or vindictive girl …’

  As I uttered these words – ‘vindictive’, in particular – I felt my resolution waver just a little. A memory from years back replayed in my mind. Jacob holding up bruised fingers.

  ‘She hit me.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘I was winning, and then she hit me …’

  I couldn’t remember what he was supposedly winning at, or what happened afterwards. Did we punish Sophie? Probably not. After all, it was her word versus his, and how could we tell which one of them was lying? Jacob wouldn’t intentionally lie, I knew that, but he was certainly capable of mistaking an accident for a deliberate act. And Sophie, well, she was a hard nut to crack. No matter how hard I pressed or questioned her, she always stuck to her story.

  But it was normal brother–sister stuff. A squabble that went too far, that was all. Kristina Owens was a different matter altogether.

  ‘It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?’ I said to Richard on the way home from the school.

  ‘Outrageous. I won’t allow it. The girl obviously wants someone to blame for her own mistake. I won’t let her or the school sully Sophie’s name like this. I know you think it’s over the top, threatening to sue, but I bloody well will, if it comes to it.’

  I sighed. ‘That’s the problem with these school camps. Anything can happen. Too many kids and not enough teachers to watch them all. And why were they orienteering, anyway? It was a maths camp, for heaven’s sake.’

  In my mind I tried to imagine the scene of the accident. Sophie wearing her trainers and her favourite denim shorts, holding a map, earnestly working out the coordinates, or whatever they do in orienteering. Kristina Owens leading the way through the rocky terrain. Why had she been paired with Sophie? Were they friends? Or were they the leftover kids who no one else had chosen to be with? Was Kristina a bit of a daredevil? I could picture her – this faceless girl with the strawberry-blonde hair – stretching her pale neck to see what lay beyond the ledge. Did she misjudge her footing, or lose her balance? Sophie seemed to think it was the latter. I could hear her scream in my head, see her body hurtling down the steep sides of the gorge, bouncing against tree trunks and boulders before coming to a stop in the undergrowth.

  Then the image of Kristina’s broken body was replaced with that of Jacob’s bloody hand: She hit me. A tiny part of me was questioning Sophie now, and I wished that I could be as adamant, as loyal, as Richard.

  Kristina Owens didn’t come back to St Brigid’s. From what I heard, she saw out the rest of Year 12 in the local public school. Richard wrote to Mrs Jones a few days later, outlining his disappointment at her handling of the matter, the obvious lack of supervision at the camp, and once again implying that he would take legal action if necessary. The school backed down. Nothing further came of it, and Sophie graduated later that year, awarded the highest of honours: dux.

  I’m sure Richard has forgotten about Kristina Owens. I still think of her. Occasionally. What happened still niggles at me. Even after all this time.

  33

  Richard

  I think about Kristina Owens every now and then. More often in recent times, since Sophie had her accident. She seems to pop up in my mind whenever I think about blame. The need to lay blame is almost like a human reflex. Something bad happens and our immediate reaction is to point the finger at someone, to find a focus point for our anger, to yearn for the perpetrator to pay a price for what they did. That’s exactly how I feel about Aidan Ryan, why nothing less than prison will suffice, but at least my feelings are legitimate: he was the one behind the wheel, the one who wasn’t paying attention that morning, the one who walked away from the accident while Sophie was left shattered in every way. Kristina Owens had only herself to blame – she went too close to the edge – but she was too immature to come to terms with the harsh truth of what had happened. She wanted to blame someone, anyone, and poor Sophie was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  ‘Hey, Dad. How’s it going?’

  My thoughts are so far away I don’t notice Jacob until he’s practically right in front of me. His hands are stuffed deep in the pockets of beige chinos. His shirt is open at the collar. The dress code at the council seems fairly relaxed.

  ‘Good,’ I respond. ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Oh, nothing exciting …’ He sits down next to me on the garden wall. Milli and Hugo are playing amicably in the cubbyhouse. Ten minutes ago they were fighting like cat and dog. ‘How were the kids today?’

  ‘The usual ups and downs.’ I laugh fondly. ‘Milli is the boss. She reminds me so much of Sophie.’

  Jacob frowns at me. ‘Don’t let Milli get away with things, Dad … You always allowed Sophie to get away with murder.’

  I frown straight back at him. ‘That’s uncalled for,’ I say sternly. ‘I was very fair with both of you, just like I am with Milli and Hugo.’

  Jacob is silent for a while. I’m getting the impression that he’s out of sorts: maybe his day at the office wasn’t as unexciting as he claims.

  ‘Do you remember the time Sophie almost broke my fingers with her tennis racquet?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was about eleven. I remember the plastic rim coming down on my knuckles – the burst of pain, the shock – before she did it again, and again. I remember bawling my eyes out as I ran off to tell on her. I remember Mum trying to kiss it better, sending you to get some ice, but most of all I remember that Sophie got away with it.’

  I don’t remember the incident at all. ‘We must’ve thought it was an accident … Sophie wouldn’t hurt you on purpose. You know that, Jacob.’

  ‘But she did hurt me on purpose. There was nothing accidental about it, nothing at all. I was winning the tennis game and she couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t stand losing.’

  There might be some truth in that. Despite being a year younger, Sophie was a faster runner and swimmer than Jacob, and he didn’t come anywhere near her academic ability either. Tennis was the only thing he could beat her at. His reflexes were faster, it was as simple as that, but I’m sure it must have annoyed her. She was fiercely competitive.

  ‘I used to concede points to make the games closer than they were because there was always a backlash if I completely thrashed her: a pinch, or a kick to the shin, or she’d hide my books or my soccer ball. But you and Mum couldn’t see that side of her. Everyone loves the clever, talented kids, and it takes imagination and perseverance to look beyond that and see what’s really beneath.’

  Bloody hell, Jacob can hold on to a grudge. He’s talking about stuff that happened twenty-odd years ago. Normal brother–sister scuffles and disagreements. Take Milli and Hugo, for example. Their constant tussles throughout the day, their cute little fights. How Milli invariably has the upper hand. How Hugo takes it, takes it, takes it, before finally cracking and pushing her away.

  ‘Look, Jacob, Sophie didn’t do anything to you that Milli won’t do to Hugo. It’s normal for children to fight and hurt each other and for one of them to come out on top. One day Milli will be infuriated about something and there will be a tennis racquet or a cricket bat nearby, and what do you think will happen?’

  He crosses his arms. ‘If that happens, then Milli won’t get away with it. Carolyn and I will punish her accordingly.’

  I frown at him again. ‘Do you think your mother and I were bad parents? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No, no, I’m not saying that at all.�
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  I’m not sure he’s telling the truth. I’m bloody annoyed, to be honest. Has he ever put himself in our shoes?

  ‘How would you and Carolyn feel if Hugo and Milli were barely speaking twenty or thirty years from now?’

  That makes him pause for thought. Of course he’d be upset – like Dee and I are – if his grown-up children didn’t get along. Isn’t that the whole point of having more than one child? The belief that they’ll be there for each other? That they’ll form their own little unit and pull together in the good times and the bad?

  ‘Like I’d failed as a parent,’ he admits. ‘I’d be heartbroken.’

  ‘Exactly. You’re a grown man, a father of two children with vastly different personalities. There will be many, many altercations ahead … You must understand that holding grudges is just about the worst thing one can do.’

  Sophie might have been overly competitive and at times spiteful as a child, but Jacob was far too sensitive and always wanted to believe the worst of her. Jacob was in his first year at university (studying communications and media) when Kristina Owens made those shocking allegations.

  ‘Are you sure she didn’t do it?’ he asked me one night when it was just the two of us at home. Dee and Sophie were at training of some description – Sophie was involved in a lot of extracurricular activities. I had come into Jacob’s room in search of dirty laundry, and he was lying on his bed, reading a book. He was an avid reader back then.

  I looked up from the laundry basket to give him a withering stare. ‘That isn’t nice, Jacob … And how do you know about it, anyway?’

  ‘I overheard you and Mum talking about it.’

  ‘It’s a serious allegation that’s been made, a black mark against Sophie’s character, and we’re not going to take it.’

  I gathered some dirty clothes from the basket and made to leave the room.

  ‘She is capable of lying, you know,’ Jacob suggested quietly.

  I turned around and glared at him again. ‘Jacob McCarthy! What’s got into you tonight?’

  I feel like saying the same to him right now. What has got into you today?

  ‘You know, Jacob, your sister has been through a horrific experience … It makes me and your mother incredibly sad that you haven’t truly supported her.’

  Jacob looks a bit ashamed of himself then. ‘Sorry, Dad, you’re right. The thought of Milli and Hugo potentially falling out one day does make me want to do better with Sophie.’

  Carolyn calls us in for dinner, which is a chaotic affair. The children have reached that time of the day – arsenic hour – when they can’t be reasoned with. I say my goodbyes straight after the meal and commence the drive back to Sydney. The freeway is fairly quiet and I have the pleasure of being able to drive faster than usual. My thoughts are on Sophie and Jacob and the hope that our chat will bring about some improvement in their relationship. I had no idea that Jacob felt so aggrieved. Now that I think about it, holding a grudge is very closely connected to laying blame and, just like that, I’m back to Kristina Owens again. Of course the poor girl wanted to blame someone – other than herself – for her awful injuries. Of course she wanted to believe someone else was responsible. She was just a teenage girl, and of course her mind immediately latched on to the girl who epitomized all she had lost: Sophie.

  The headmistress, if she was any bloody good at her job, should have figured this out. That woman pointed the finger at Sophie without stopping to think of the alternative: Kristina being the liar.

  34

  Hannah

  I was on the other side of the gorge when the accident happened. I was with Felicity Harrison, my assigned partner for the orienteering exercise, and she had asked me to stop because she wanted to take yet another photo.

  ‘Wow. Look at that tree. Amazing.’

  Felicity Harrison was one of those overly enthusiastic girls. Fine in small doses, but harder to take over extended periods, like this two-hour trek. We were way behind schedule because we kept stopping to take photos of the trees, the wildlife, the view to the other side of the gorge and Felicity herself, in various poses in front of the very same trees, wildlife and view. In fact, we still hadn’t reached the halfway mark, and I could see that some groups had crossed the infamous rope bridge – I could only imagine how many shots Felicity would want to take of that! – and were heading home along the far side.

  So, while Felicity was zooming in on one of the strangler figs – it was rather impressive, I had to admit – I was staring into the far distance across the gorge. There were two girls almost directly across and they had stopped, like we had. I was about to raise my hand to wave and call out to them – as we had been doing with other groups – when one of them, the girl in red, seemed to disappear suddenly. My eyes followed her down the ravine, an ominous flash of red bouncing through the undergrowth and rocks, in what felt like slow motion. Then the echo of her scream reached my ears.

  ‘Oh my God! Someone has fallen.’

  Felicity lowered the camera from her face. ‘Who? What?’

  ‘I can’t see who … we’re too far away. Give me the camera. Quick.’

  Felicity obediently lifted the camera strap over her head and handed it to me. I zoomed in and found what I was looking for: a red shirt among the brown-green undergrowth and grey rocks.

  ‘She’s not moving.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Felicity asked breathlessly.

  ‘I can’t see her face.’

  I brought the camera up so that I was looking straight across again.

  ‘That’s Sophie McCarthy at the top. It must be her partner who has fallen. Do you know who she was with?’

  Felicity shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Sophie looks like she’s about to climb down there.’ I handed the camera back to Felicity. ‘Come on. We have to turn back and get help.’

  Felicity and I retraced our steps, covering the return journey at a much greater speed. We didn’t talk much, concentrating on moving as fast as we could, jogging along the narrow and sometimes treacherous path, our breath panting in our ears. Back at the camp we found the first available teacher and blurted out a teary account of what had happened – shock was beginning to set in.

  Within an hour or two everyone knew about the accident and the name of the girl who had fallen: Kristina Owens. She was a well-known face at the school, captain of both the netball team and the senior band. I didn’t know her personally – she was a year ahead of me – but I felt as though I did. I had passed her in corridors, seen her taking books from her locker and witnessed her laughing with her friends. It was unfathomable to think that she had been stretchered out of the ravine by rescue paramedics, and that now she was unconscious in a hospital far from home when she should have been here, sitting around the campfire with the rest of us, drinking hot chocolate and trying to pretend that maths wasn’t fun.

  The next morning there was counselling offered to anyone who felt they needed it. Felicity went; Sophie too, or so I heard. I decided not to. I was still in a state of shock, and too young to understand the long-term impact an accident like that can have on you, how it can replay over and over in your head, as vivid as the day it happened, even though it’s a lifetime later.

  After some half-hearted maths tutorials – where no one could concentrate on the practical problems we were being asked to solve – the teachers realized the situation was irredeemable and organized for our buses to come a few hours earlier than planned.

  ‘Oh, you’re early,’ Mum said when I came through the door. ‘Had enough maths?’

  It was a bit of a standing joke in our house: my love of maths. Both Mum and Dad had been numerically challenged at school – or so they claimed – and were half amused and half proud of my abilities.

  But instead of giving her the grin she expected, I promptly burst into tears and launched myself into her arms.

  ‘What is it, Hannah? What is it?’

  I couldn’t answer right away, I was too distr
essed. We stood there in the kitchen, and I cried for Kristina Owens. I cried as hard as I imagine I would have cried if she’d been my sister, or my best friend.

  ‘What is it?’ Mum kept asking, and it was quite some time before I could string together a coherent answer and give her an outline of what had happened.

  ‘I thought you were at a maths camp. What were you doing orienteering?’ she asked, pragmatic, as always.

  ‘To get some fresh air and clear our heads,’ I hiccupped. ‘Before doing more maths.’

  ‘Were there teachers on the walk?’

  ‘Mr King and Miss Curtis.’

  ‘Where? At the end of the group? Or the start?’

  ‘The middle, I think.’

  Mum was only asking the same questions all the other parents would ask over the following days. The school convened a special meeting to deal with the distraught children and angry parents.

  Mrs Jones addressed us all from the podium. ‘We are here tonight because we have been affected by the unfortunate accident that occurred during the orienteering activity … And you all have questions and concerns, which is perfectly understandable. Questions about how such an accident could occur, and if there was proper supervision, and concerns over whether the activity being undertaken was a safe one … I can say that we have interviewed everyone involved …’

  Not everyone. You haven’t interviewed me.

  ‘And there are differing accounts of what exactly happened – which is common in cases like this – but we feel that it is reasonable to conclude that the student in question, who was walking ahead of her partner, came across a dangerous section of the path and lost her footing, which led to the fall …’

  Should I put my hand up? Tell her what I saw? That Kristina Owens was not walking ahead? That she and Sophie had stopped, like Felicity and me on the other side of the ravine. Had Kristina been about to take a swig from her drink bottle, or was I imagining that?

  I had been very far away from it all. Maybe Kristina was slightly ahead. I could have sworn they had stopped, though. But I wasn’t sure enough to put up my hand and draw attention to myself.