by B M Carroll
‘A safety assessment is currently being undertaken at the camp, and the final report will be shared with all the parents and students involved. Kristina herself is – understandably – traumatized and must now concentrate all her energy on getting well. In the meantime, we have talked to everyone else …’
So they’ve spoken to Sophie? Well, obviously. Sophie would have been the key witness. And she had no reason to lie about who was standing where at the point of the fall.
Mrs Jones droned on for another fifteen minutes or so, and then took questions – of which there were many. I sat through it all, not saying a word, not even to Mum, who would have been a good sounding board.
Sophie had no reason to lie. That’s what I thought, and that’s the main reason I didn’t put up my hand (the other reason was that I was painfully shy and simply didn’t have the self-confidence required to stop the headmistress mid-flow).
Six months later I realized that maybe Sophie McCarthy did have a reason to lie, after all. It was when I heard her name being called out at the end-of-year ceremony. When I saw her triumphant smile as she accepted the plaque from the mayor: Dux of St Brigid’s.
When someone behind me whispered: ‘That should have been Kristina Owens.’
Until that moment I’d no idea that Kristina and Sophie were rivals. My imagination went into overdrive. I envisaged an ongoing feud between the girls, culminating in a dramatic wrestling match at the side of the ravine. It was complete conjecture on my part: like most teenage girls, I had a penchant for drama. The truth is, I saw nothing other than Kristina falling, and Sophie standing there, before starting to climb down to help. I didn’t know what to make of it at the time, and I still don’t today. These last few nights, lying in bed, I’ve found myself looking across that gorge and trying to make sense of it. How Kristina fell, and why, or even if, Sophie lied. And the answer is, I don’t know. I just don’t know.
Teenage girls can lie for no reason at all. Maybe she lied out of panic because she thought she could get in trouble for something that wasn’t her fault. Or maybe it was a knee-jerk reaction, a psychological reflex to distance herself from the trauma.
I don’t know. I just don’t know. And I will never know.
35
Aidan
Last night I dreamed that Jasmin was in Iraq, that she was one of a group of caramel-coloured children playing hide-and-seek in a bombed-out building. The children giggled as they darted to their various hiding spots, oblivious to the danger of the partially collapsed walls and the heavily armed insurgents nearby. I tried to warn them, to shoo them away, but it was as though they were in a different realm to me and couldn’t hear me roaring at them. The insurgents attacked, as I knew they would, and bullets ricocheted off the crumbled walls. The children ran from their hiding spots, straight into the gunfire, and fell one by one. I dropped to my knees to cradle one of the dead in my arms. It was a girl, and when I pulled back her hijab to better see her face, I saw that she was my own daughter. I woke with a scream in my throat, my heart thumping with grief and terror. My dreams are often a macabre mix of the present and the past. Jasmin wasn’t even born when we invaded Baghdad, and yet it had felt so real, real enough for my hands to continue to shake while I’m shaving, causing the razor to nick the underside of my chin.
This morning I’m meeting my solicitor, Barry Ford. Barry came recommended by one of the legal corps at the barracks. My first meeting with Barry was about two months after the accident. His office was on the fifteenth floor of a new building in Sussex Street and had a spectacular view of Darling Harbour. Barry wore an expensive-looking shirt and tie and had diamond cufflinks flashing on his wrists; he presented as one of those extremely well-groomed older men. I was in full uniform, my boots planted on the luxurious carpet, my beret in my hands. I felt – and looked, I am quite sure – completely at odds with my surroundings.
‘I want to plead guilty,’ I told him in no uncertain terms. I had received a court-attendance notice from the police. I intended to enter my plea at the first opportunity. The accident was my fault, my mistake, and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t take full responsibility. Being responsible also meant hiring a good solicitor. Someone who had a wealth of experience with cases like mine, and who could add their expertise to my principles (my need to admit culpability) to achieve the best possible outcome in court.
‘I respect your desire to take responsibility, Captain Ryan. But you need to be aware of what this means … By pleading guilty, you’re admitting to the necessary elements of the crime, including being of sound mind at the time. As soon as that plea is entered, there’s no going back on either of these points. Are you sure this is how you want to proceed?’
My stare was unflinching. ‘I wasn’t paying due attention to my driving that morning. I was tired and distracted, but I was perfectly sane. To say otherwise would be lying.’
‘Quite,’ said Barry Ford, giving a little cough.
I entered my plea, but then a number of adjournments (initially due to my attendance at a traffic offenders’ programme, and then because of necessary military commitments) caused the usual timelines to stretch out. Finally we have a firm court date for the sentencing and here I am, back in Barry Ford’s swish fifteenth-floor office, the cut on my chin stinging slightly as Barry explains, once again, the relevant laws and penalties.
‘A person must not drive a motor vehicle negligently on a road or road-related area. If the driving occasions grievous bodily harm, the maximum penalty is imprisonment for nine months, or disqualification for up to three years, or both … There’s the fine – $2,200. This is all for a first offence … It gets more serious after that.’
The prospect of nine months in prison sounds serious enough to me.
‘What’re the chances I’ll get put away?’ I’ve asked this question before and, for Jasmin’s sake, I feel compelled to ask again. A flash of last night’s dream comes back to me – the horror of seeing her lifeless face behind the hijab, the crushing grief that still hasn’t quite gone away. Jasmin knows about the accident, that I made a mistake and will be punished – just like she is when she does something wrong – but I haven’t yet broached the fact that a court date has been set, or that prison is a possibility. Should the worst case eventuate and I’m locked up for however many months, what kind of toll would that take on my daughter? Would the added anxiety and embarrassment cause her sleeping to deteriorate even further? Would other behavioural problems begin to manifest? What would happen at school, with her friends? Once or twice, I’ve deluded myself with the notion that maybe the shock of having her father incarcerated would push a reset button in her brain, her sleeping miraculously correcting itself.
This time it’s Barry whose stare doesn’t flinch. ‘In all probability, you’ll be ordered to enter into a good behaviour bond, and that’s all. There are so many factors in your favour, Captain Ryan. No criminal history, no traffic history, your being an indisputably worthwhile member of society and a person of good character, the accident occurring because of a momentary lapse of attention rather than a sustained period of reckless driving, and you showing great remorse for your actions … A good behaviour bond and a fine, that will be it.’
I hope it’s that straightforward, I really do. ‘And my licence?’
‘The judge may extend the disqualification, but it’s more likely that he’ll be happy with the twelve-month suspension you’ve already had.’
It seems odd to have to go to court – to pay for medical reports, expert opinions, solicitor and court fees – when the outcome seems almost predetermined. I suppose the police need to push cases like these through to their full conclusion – predictable though it may be. Otherwise, there would be no accountability, no consequences, no structure in place to stem the recklessness – and terrible damage – we’re all capable of every time we sit behind the wheel of a vehicle.
Barry continues speaking. ‘Now, our main objective today is to expand on your back
ground and other subjective factors. I’ll need details of your upbringing, your responsibilities at work, stable family circumstances, that sort of thing. I’ll also need some character references for –’
I cut him off. ‘There’s something you should know … about my family circumstances … Sorry, I should’ve mentioned it earlier … You see, something rather fundamental has changed since we last met. The victim – Sophie McCarthy – and me … well, we’re in a relationship …’
Barry’s mouth drops open. A few moments pass before he collects himself to ask, ‘What kind of relationship, exactly?’
My grip on my beret tightens. ‘We’re living together.’
‘I see … And your wife?’
Chloe’s face – hurt, shocked, blotched from crying – flashes in front of my eyes. ‘I’ve separated from my wife.’
My solicitor temporarily abandons his notes and pushes back from his desk. ‘How did this happen, if I may ask?’
‘We fell in love,’ I say, as though it were that simple.
‘You fell in love,’ Barry repeats slowly. ‘When? I mean, how long after the accident?’
It’s hard to pinpoint the exact timing. At what point did my concern for Sophie, and my remorse, morph into attraction and love? At the hospital, when she was so helpless yet so feisty? When I started to visit her at home, helping wherever she needed my help and in the process seeing how clever and determined and resilient she was? When she declared her feelings for me and forced me to acknowledge my own? Would it put things in context for Barry if I explained that I fought my feelings as hard as I’ve fought in any battle? That I did everything in my power to defeat them, to kill them off? Would it help if I told him there was a period of transition, a few weeks when I slept on a colleague’s couch, confused and distressed, until it became clear that everyone involved – even Jasmin, who was the most vulnerable – deserved my honesty, if nothing else? And what would Barry make of the fact that everything is still far from clear-cut and resolved? That Sophie and I have argued about Jasmin, and that not a day goes by when I don’t think about Chloe? When I don’t miss her?
‘A few months ago.’
Barry pulls his chair in close to his desk again before he mumbles, more to himself than me, ‘Well, that certainly puts a different spin on things.’
‘Does it?’ I ask. ‘Will the fact that Sophie has forgiven me make any difference to the outcome?’
‘Sorry, I was speaking more from my own point of view,’ he clarifies. ‘The judge may take it into account when he’s considering special circumstances … But at the end of the day, the law is the law, and negligent driving is a crime, no matter how forgiving the victim might feel.’ He picks up his pen, poised to make further notes. ‘Now, the other thing we need to do today is organize a psychiatric assessment for you. It’s pretty standard in cases like these.’
A psychiatric assessment for a soldier is like a car crash of a different kind. Scratch the surface and you don’t know what the hell you’ll find.
‘No problem. Just tell me who to see.’
36
Jasmin
They put me in a swing and asked me if I liked it. I did. I was allowed to swing for as long as I wanted to. That never happens in the park; there’s always someone else waiting – younger kids – and Mum makes me get off so they can have a turn.
Then they put me in a hammock and asked what I thought of that. I liked it too. Actually, I nearly fell asleep in there (I was really tired from last night). There were two of them, a woman and a man. The woman – Rosemary – was in charge. The man was training to become a physiotherapist. He took lots of notes.
There was a gym, with monkey bars and ladders and climbing nets. I explained to Rosemary that I’m bad with heights and she asked me to try my best, so I did. She taught me a new word, acrophobia, and gave me a high five each time I managed to climb to the top. Next, we did trampolining, tug of war, push-ups and wrestling. The wrestling was my favourite. The man did it with me. He said I was super-strong, tougher than most boys.
Mum and Dad were sitting close together on the red couch in the waiting room. They looked like they were having a Really Serious Discussion, and I wished we hadn’t come out right then and interrupted them because they could’ve been talking about getting back together.
‘Jasmin did really well today,’ Rosemary said, pulling up a chair so she was opposite Mum and Dad. I stayed standing, even though my legs were tired. ‘We did a lot of specific activities that should help self-regulate her level of arousal and prevent sensory overload at bedtime.’
‘There was a swing and a hammock and a trampoline …’ I said. My voice was breathless.
Rosemary gave me a smile. ‘Sit down, Jasmin. You must be worn out.’
I sat next to Daddy, and he pulled me close. He was in his uniform. He had taken some time off work again.
‘Based on what we observed today, we’ve prepared a sensory diet for Jasmin,’ Rosemary said, handing Mum a document to read.
‘A sensory diet?’ Mum asked, wearing one of her sceptical expressions.
Rosemary nodded at Mum, as though she had been expecting this reaction. ‘A sensory diet is like a plan, making sure the child has enough of the right activities to regulate their level of alertness. Activities that involve heavy resistance and input to the joints and muscles are particularly effective. Pushing, pulling, bouncing, jumping, climbing, that sort of thing. This is why a tight hug can be so calming if one is feeling upset about something …’ Rosemary went on, using lots of words I’ve never heard of: ‘vestibular’, ‘tactile’, ‘cognitive’. ‘Oral activities can be particularly effective too. Chewing gum, blowing up balloons, sucking drinks through straws. I’ve enclosed a list of crunchy foods …’
‘Is it really going to work?’ I asked Mum and Dad when we got outside.
I didn’t want to be sceptical, but the sugar hadn’t worked. Neither had the ‘consequences’.
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Mum in a tired voice.
‘It’ll be fun.’ Daddy grinned, obviously trying to make up for Mum’s lack of enthusiasm. ‘I foresee many great wrestling matches.’
‘You’d better watch out,’ I told him.
‘No, you’d better watch out. I’ll be using all my dirty tricks. Such as this …’ He gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek.
I wiped my face. ‘Yuck.’
He laughed. ‘I’d better go. I’ll see you at the weekend, OK?’
‘OK, Daddy. Bye.’
I’m having another try at staying over with him on Saturday night. I just hope all the jumping and bouncing and pushing is working by then. Otherwise, Sophie will get really, really annoyed again.
37
Chloe
I finally brought it up with him. At the physiotherapist’s, while we were waiting for Jasmin. It took every ounce of courage I had, to take the bill from my handbag and offer it to him, to force the issue like that, to demand a decision, to pretend our unborn babies amounted to nothing more than money that needed to be paid, or money that could potentially be saved, depending on what we decided.
‘This came last week … It’s the storage costs … from the clinic.’
Aidan took the invoice from my outstretched hand and stared down at it. Neither of us said anything. I regretted it then. I wanted to snatch it back from him, and say, Forget it. We were alone, but still it was the wrong place for this kind of discussion. Not that any discussion was happening; we were like mutes, both of us. But it needed to be dealt with, and I had gone this far. Aidan looked completely at a loss, and so it was up to me to say the unspeakable.
‘It doesn’t make sense to keep on paying … We’re not a couple … These babies are not going to be born.’ My voice broke, and a few moments passed before I could trust myself to speak again. ‘I can’t believe it has come to this … It breaks my heart, it really does, but we need to be practical about this.’
Still no response. I could see the pulse throbbing
on his neck, and I knew how hard he was working to contain his emotions.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, finally meeting my eyes. ‘I know how badly you wanted those babies …’
‘We wanted them, Aidan,’ I corrected him furiously. ‘Not just me.’
‘Yes.’ He hung his head again. ‘I know … I know.’
It was hard to stay angry when he was so obviously upset. I softened my tone. ‘So what are we going to do?’
‘I don’t know, Chloe. I just don’t know.’
And it was hard to watch him – usually so decisive and sure of himself – flounder like this.
‘We can’t keep paying it month after month … You’re living with someone else, for pity’s sake.’ Another flash of anger from me.
He looked at me again. ‘What would they do with the embryos if we don’t pay?’
‘Destroy them,’ I whispered.
‘How?’
‘I’m not sure I want to know.’
And that’s where we were at when Jasmin bounded in. Her face was flushed, her ponytail askew, her words tripping over each other; she had never been so absolutely perfect. Were our unborn babies genetically similar? Did they have her dark hair and honey-brown eyes? Did they have the same big heart, ingrained conscientiousness and unfailing enthusiasm? Potentially, the same difficulties falling asleep at night?
Jasmin sat down next to Aidan and he put his arm around her shoulders; our eyes met over her head and I knew the exact same thoughts were crossing his mind. These were our babies we were talking about, Jasmin’s brothers and sisters.
Rosemary started to run through the sensory diet with us. I felt jaded listening to her. We’ve tried so many different things it’s hard to maintain any kind of optimism or enthusiasm.
We said goodbye outside. Aidan gave Jasmin one of the sloppy kisses she loves to hate, then he took my hand and squeezed it.