The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  The truth is, this isn’t the first time Dad fucked up my life. He was complicit in the Kristina Owens thing too. He had stoked the rivalry between us for as long as I could remember and couldn’t bear it whenever she did better than me.

  ‘You’re as good as her, Sophie. Every bit as good.’

  ‘But it doesn’t matter how hard I try, Dad, or how much I study, she always seems to pip me …’

  ‘Figure out a way to solve her … Use your intelligence, Sophie.’

  Dad must have been complicit because the first thing that came into my head, after the push, before I realized the enormity of what I had done, was ‘There! Solved!’

  We never spoke of it. Dad threatened to sue the school, forced them to back down, all without asking me outright if I was guilty or innocent. I suppose he couldn’t fathom the idea of me being as flawed as that, and he flew into attack mode without pausing to check the facts. I’m not sure the truth would’ve stopped him, anyway; he’d have gone to any lengths to protect my future.

  I’ve resigned from Real Cover Insurance. The warning crushed me. John Greenland and Alyssa ganging up on me like that, after all I’ve done, all the effort and long hours and blood and sweat I’ve poured into my job. I was too humiliated to argue the case any further, to carry on working there. I resigned calmly, with dignity (Jane could have learned a thing or two, had she been watching), said that I was feeling increasingly ill and needed to put my health first – which is depressingly true.

  John Greenland didn’t even try to talk me round. I’ve heard since that he’s taking great interest in Hannah. It’s too much, the thought that she could be his new protégée. Hannah, with her plain clothes and blushing face. Hannah, with her pesky twins and her druggie husband. Hannah, who added her bullying claims to Jane’s, well aware that the company would feel compelled to act and that she was pretty much wrecking my career.

  Hannah and Dad. Between the two of them, they’ve completely ruined my life, finished off the destruction that was started by the accident.

  My pain seems to have gone off the scale, most days an eight point five or nine. I’ve had to call Dr White and beg him to bring forward my next appointment. In the meantime, it’s all I can do to get out of bed in the morning, dress myself, assemble a meal. When will I be well enough again to go for interviews, to hold down another job? Will I be able to find an employer who’s flexible, who’ll be understanding if I need to take a few days’ rest here and there? How will I summon the energy, the drive, the strength to start somewhere new and prove myself all over again?

  And I miss Aidan. I miss him so much. It was never just a matter of debt, of him owing me, of me deserving to have him. I loved him from the beginning, as soon as I became aware of his overwhelming remorse, his almost old-fashioned principles, his rigorous approach to life: at last, someone with the same high standards as me. I miss him so much. The house feels empty, cold and lonely, lonely, lonely. I miss the meals he cooked, that solid warmth next to me in bed, waking to the sound of him taking his morning shower, and the cup of tea he would present to me before I commenced my struggle with the day ahead.

  The loneliness doesn’t help the pain. Not at all.

  57

  Hannah

  I told them it was a virus. The counsellor said I should tell the truth, that honesty is always the best policy. I vehemently disagreed. Nine-year-old kids shouldn’t have to learn what the word ‘suicide’ means. It was in my power to spare them that, to salvage their childhood. Of course I’ll tell them when they’re older. Fourteen or fifteen, I think.

  We moved suburbs not only for financial reasons, but also to make it easier to maintain the lie. We left all our old friends behind, cut contact with anybody who might have carelessly let the truth slip out.

  Your father killed himself. He did it in the garden shed, while you were doing your homework and your mum was cooking dinner. Your mum found him when she went to call him in to eat. She called an ambulance, even though she knew it was too late to save him. She took you both next door, so you wouldn’t see the rope or the ambulance or the truth of how he died. He left a note, his last words saying how he couldn’t take the pain any longer, the pain of living, the pain of being alive, and that he knew everyone would understand and forgive him. She hid the note from you too. There was no virus.

  Harry’s parents understood the need to protect the boys, even though moving house meant a four-hour drive from their farm. They’ve been to see us twice. The apartment is too small, too intimate, and it’s so much harder to hide from the truth when they come. We’re all still playing the blame game. How have we found ourselves in this terrible, terrible place? How did this happen on our watch? We’d been dealing with Harry’s suicidal tendencies for years (including one other attempt at taking his own life) and although we were worn out on occasion and perhaps a little desensitized, most of the time we were supportive and positive about the future. Now we all feel responsible. Especially me. I tiptoed around Harry. Deferred to his moods. I was so understanding. Everyone was understanding. And I felt that had somehow contributed to his decision, made it more palatable, made it easier for him to rationalize leaving us.

  Rest in peace, Harry.

  Love you, Harry. Hope you are happy now.

  Forever young, forever in our hearts.

  Our love and understanding always.

  I know you’re in a happy place now, Harry. At last.

  At the time, it seemed like Harry’s Facebook friends were giving him their blessing. It was almost as if they were saying, It’s OK. You did what you needed to do, and this made me fear that we’d inadvertently ratified his decision to take his own life. In our efforts to be as supportive as possible, had we lost sight of the need to be tough about suicide not, and never, being an option? He even said it in his note: I know you all understand.

  For months and months, I couldn’t bear the thought of those tributes and the permission that seemed implicit in them. Now I’ve read them again, I can see that they’re just words. Words from people who don’t know what to say. Words from people who are incredibly sad and utterly at a loss. There’s no underlying ratification. Harry didn’t do what he did because he thought we would ultimately understand. He did what he did because he was in mental agony, and on that particular day the pain became too much to bear.

  Harry’s depression was considered a pre-existing medical condition when he changed life-insurance policies (as a result of changing jobs) the year before he died, and somewhere in the fine print of the new policy there was a two-year waiting period for pre-existing conditions. Do the people who write these clauses ever stop to think about the practicalities of what they’re writing? Do they expect people on the brink of suicide to notice fine print and, even if they do, to be able to hang in there for the requisite time so that their families won’t be left destitute?

  Last week, John Greenland mentioned that his background is in life insurance. When I know him a little better, I’m going to pluck up the courage to ask him if he would look into Harry’s case. John seems a nice man. I think he would help, if he could, if only to tell me to give up on a lost cause. He’s been very encouraging these last few weeks.

  ‘You know you could do Part 1 actuarial examinations,’ he said the other day. ‘You should consider it.’

  And I will consider it. I was very good at maths, once upon a time. Good enough to go on that camp, which was for students with ‘exceptional mathematical ability’. I will take my career more seriously when my boys are settled and don’t need me as much. For now, I’m happy to go to work every day without having to worry about what mood Sophie will be in, how much she will demand of me, and whether I will be able to extract myself on time to get home to my family. I’m happy that I don’t need to take work home with me, and that my phone and inbox aren’t going off every minute. I’m happy that I’ve finally found the strength and courage to speak out, to take people to task, even if I am drawing attention to myself in the pr
ocess.

  I’ve heard that Sophie has regressed and is in an awful lot of pain. We all hurt in some way. We just have to rise above it, keep going. You can’t give in to pain. Not even a little bit. Otherwise, before you know it, it will completely take over, destroying your life and the lives of those who love you.

  58

  Chloe

  I have my family back.

  That’s the first thing I remind myself of when I wake up in the morning, and the last thing I think of at night.

  Thank goodness I have my family back.

  Even though we will never be the same again.

  Aidan is absolutely ravaged by guilt. Guilt about the accident, about moving out from home, about not recognizing the threat posed by Richard, about the long-term impact all this will have on Jasmin. Jack and I have had a few long talks since that fateful night at the barracks. He has since organized some proper counselling for Aidan, in addition to his own ongoing support. Apparently post-traumatic stress takes all shapes and forms, and every human being, even the strongest, most resilient ones, has a limit to what they can take, how much tragedy and destruction and distress they can absorb before becoming damaged, before they start to do things – lash out at a partner or friends, drink themselves to oblivion, self-destruct in various ways – that are out of character, at odds with the real person. Sophie was the tipping point for Aidan. The horror that he had harmed someone, almost taken her life, when his whole existence is about keeping people safe. And then Jasmin. Our beautiful Jasmin. Abducted, lost in the bush, horrifyingly far from safe.

  It’s obvious to me, to Jack, and now to Aidan too, that he’s going to need to work through his guilt. To stop blaming himself. To come to terms with all the dead faces he sees when he closes his eyes at night. To come to terms with the accident and the fact that he made a mistake and badly hurt someone. To come to terms with the complicated chain of events that resulted in Jasmin being taken.

  Jasmin has been displaying increased clinginess with both Aidan and me, and Mrs Stanley has said that she’s slightly subdued in class. Davy thinks she’s not as confident on the soccer field, more prone to tears if she gets hurt, but all things considered, she seems to have coped remarkably well. We’re seeing Matthew twice a week. In his slow and methodical way Matthew goes over and over what happened that night in the mountains, unpicking every single detail, so that all Jasmin’s fears and feelings are out in the open. I’m so grateful that Matthew isn’t one to give in to the temptation of a ‘quick fix’ because it feels vitally important that Jasmin’s ordeal is dealt with in a thorough and careful manner. Her sleeping is so-so. Some nights we’ve one round of push-ups; some nights it’s five. But there are two of us again to deal with whatever each night brings. And when I think of what has happened – what could have happened – a bad night’s sleep is not the worst thing in the world, not by any stretch of the imagination.

  Our embryos are still in deep freeze. When we get over this, when we all feel less fragile and in a better headspace, we’ll go back to the clinic and try again. It won’t be today or tomorrow or even this year. It’s going to take time. For now, I am thankful for the family I have. That we are safe and well. That we are all together again, under one roof. That my husband and daughter are seeing the right people, getting all the support and help they need. As for me, I’ve been looking at online courses to update my degree. Just researching for now, seeing what’s out there. Fashion seems so frivolous in the scheme of things, but the researching process has provided a much-needed escape when everything else still feels so raw and precarious. It’ll be marvellous once I get started on the course. No more putting everything on hold.

  We had no idea who we crashed into that day. No idea that the girl with the dark hair was not a very good person. No idea that her father was as exacting and dangerous as she was. And no idea of the true extent of the damage that was wreaked. At first glance – aside from the cars and our own minor injuries – it seemed the only damage was done to Sophie, her broken body slumped behind the steering wheel. But our family got broken too. Shattered. We just didn’t realize it at the time. Now we must do our best to glue it back together.

  59

  Dee

  I went to see her today. Called round to the house. Knocked politely on the door, feeling more like a visitor than her mother. It took her so long to answer, I knocked again, harder, and she was annoyed with me when we were finally face to face.

  ‘I was coming … It just takes a while.’

  She looked terrible. As pale as I’ve ever seen her. Her eyes were bloodshot – had she been crying? – and her clothes and hair were nowhere near her usual meticulous standards.

  ‘Sorry,’ I heard myself apologizing as I followed her into the house. ‘How are you?’

  Her answer was terse and delivered without turning her head around. ‘I’ve been better.’

  Hunched shoulders, a slight hobble to her gait, she made for the couch, where her laptop, an open packet of crisps and a discarded blanket were awaiting her return.

  ‘Have you been working?’ I asked, sitting myself down.

  ‘It’s just my spreadsheet.’

  The spreadsheet. Hadn’t the doctor told her to forget about tracking and rating everything? He didn’t like her focusing on her pain, obsessing, if I remembered correctly. Sophie’s expression was familiarly mutinous so I decided to let the matter drop until I could check my facts with Richard. Speaking of Richard.

  ‘Your father is feeling a little better. Obviously still devastated and utterly ashamed about what he did, and all the trouble and worry he caused. But he’s able to see now how everything got on top of him and he’s ready to face all the charges by the police, write a letter of apology to Jasmin, Aidan and Chloe, and start picking up the pieces.’

  She tapped some keys on the laptop without providing a reply.

  ‘He would really love to see you. Or hear from you, if you don’t feel up to a visit.’

  Still no response, no answer, no reaction at all.

  ‘Sophie?’

  ‘I told you!’ Each word sounded as though it was coated in venom. ‘I told you that I’m done with him.’

  ‘He’s your father. You can’t be done with him. It doesn’t work like that.’

  Nothing. No further response. More typing. In true Sophie fashion, she was digging her heels in. Always such an obstinate, unyielding creature. So difficult to convince, to influence and even to nurture. It’s intimidating being her mother. At times.

  ‘Look, I’m to blame too. I knew that your father wasn’t himself. I thought a holiday would fix things … Talk about underestimating the situation! And Jacob also feels responsible.’ I ignored her derisive snort at the mention of her brother. ‘He regrets not going to the hearing. He thinks he would’ve noticed that Dad wasn’t in his right mind. Jacob only has to think about Milli and Hugo to imagine what Aidan’s family has been through, but he’s still prepared to step up, to see more of Dad and help him get back on his feet. He said he’d like to see more of you too, help you … that’s if you want his help. I suppose he’s realized that this is make or break for us, for our family. We’ll be left with nothing if each one of us doesn’t do their bit.’

  More silence.

  ‘And Jacob agrees with me that you and Richard are the same. Both of you have such impossibly high standards. And both of you are driven by the notion of perfection, of being the best, and you’re unable to bear it when things don’t go to plan …’

  This got a reaction. Sophie’s head reared up. Blood flooded into her face.

  ‘We are not the same!’ she screamed at me. ‘We are not … the … same.’

  They are the same. If the events of the last few weeks have proved anything, it’s that. Richard and Sophie are a dangerous mix of passion and coldness, perfectionism and ruthlessness. Capable of greatness but also of bullying, cruelty and downright wickedness. They need people like me and Jacob to moderate them, to remind them that winni
ng and being the best and getting even are not the only worthwhile goals. Grace, compassion and forgiveness are goals too, and I should have done a better job instilling these qualities in my daughter. I stood back, allowed her to attach herself to Richard, allowed him to be her only compass in life. I failed her. Allowed too many childhood digressions to go unpunished. All those small cruelties against Jacob. All the praise and primping by Richard, building her up and up until she felt she was soaring above everyone else in terms of ability, talent and entitlement. That thing with Kristina Owens. Oh, how it has niggled me all these years. I should have acted long, long before now. I stand guilty of vagueness and inaction. Of allowing myself to be railroaded by Richard. Of not pinning Sophie down and demanding the truth. Of not being switched on enough to tell when she was lying. Of not being proficient at sorting out the big issues from the small, because when a girl gets badly hurt and accuses your daughter, that’s a big, big thing.

  ‘You are the same,’ I repeated quietly, insistently. ‘It’s important that you acknowledge this, Sophie, and understand what it means. You and your father are capable of the same extreme behaviour. Many times, it has led to success, to wonderful achievements. But it can also lead the other way, drive you to a point where reason goes out the window, where callousness takes over, and then, suddenly, someone is standing in your way and you can’t stop yourselves from hurting them … You know exactly what I’m talking about, don’t you? That time we were called into the school?’

  She gasped as it hit her. The realization that I had finally arrived at the truth about Kristina. The realization that what she had done was every bit as awful and obsessive and crazy as what her father had done. The realization that, no matter how hard she denies it, they are the same. It’s not just the similarity to Richard that’s become clear. Jacob, Kristina, that Jane woman from work: I can see where they fit in too. Sophie’s like one of those complicated jigsaw puzzles she used to love as a child. I often felt I was missing some crucial pieces. It has taken me thirty-one years to see the full picture.