The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

Dee turns to give me a wave before opening the door of the boutique and disappearing inside, our spat already forgotten. She’s not one to hold grudges.

  Ten minutes later, and I’m home again. It’s an indulgence, dropping Dee off and – usually four or five hours later – picking her up again, but it gives some structure to my day. Right. Straight to work. The lawn. The mowing takes only half an hour. The small square at the front of the house, the puny strip of grass at the side and the more generous space at the rear. In my mind, it always seems a bigger task than it actually is. I’m stowing the mower back in the shed when my mobile vibrates.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  She often calls at this time, just before lunch. Trying to fill in time, I imagine.

  ‘Sweetheart! How are you today?’

  ‘Not so good, Dad.’

  I don’t like hearing that response. No father would. ‘Should I come over?’

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘You don’t sound all right.’

  ‘You’re probably busy –’

  ‘Busy? Don’t make me bloody laugh. I’ll see you in an hour or so. I’ll stop at the shops and pick up some lunch.’

  There goes the painting I was planning to do. No big deal. It’ll still be waiting for me tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that.

  Now, I’m all business. House keys, car keys, short drive to the deli, fresh ham, bread and salad.

  Sophie’s house is in Randwick, the next-door suburb. A redbrick three-bed bungalow, common to the area. I helped her find it (we house-hunted for months), and I was there – proudly standing next to her – at the auction when she outbid a family who had their heart set on it too. The lock on the front door can be tricky at times. Neither Aidan nor Dee knows that I have my own key.

  Sophie’s sitting on the sofa, watching daytime TV, a cotton blanket over her legs, despite the fact that it’s a relatively warm day outside. It’s a depressing sight. No way for a thirty-one-year-old woman to be spending her life.

  ‘There you are, sweetheart. I have food!’

  She looks up and smiles. It’s her mother’s smile, but it’s my face: oval, pale skin, long nose. Even the thick, dark hair that she wears down past her shoulders is from my side of the family. Sophie’s a little on the short side, but that never stopped her. She’s smart; Sophie is so smart it makes my heart want to burst with pride. I could tell from early on that she noticed things. I loved to see her work things out – how to roll and sit and crawl and walk. She leapfrogged all the usual developmental milestones, almost overtaking her older brother. At school, she was unstoppable. Curious, motivated and breathtakingly quick to pick things up.

  ‘Here, let me help you over to the table,’ I say now.

  I hold out my arm, and she exerts pressure on it as she stands up. My heart breaks just a little bit further. This is the same girl who used to demand to walk everywhere. She wouldn’t stay in her pram for us. She would kick and scream until one of us would relent and let her out. Jacob, on the other hand, was happy to be wheeled everywhere. I used to shake my head and marvel at how different they were.

  ‘Will I butter your bread?’ I ask when she’s seated at the table.

  ‘Please.’

  She wouldn’t let us feed her either. What a mess she would make – food all over her face, her hair, the floor. She would insist on doing it herself.

  I can’t bear to see her like this – so dependent, so frail.

  Once Sophie is sorted, I fill my own plate and sit down opposite her. To be honest, it’s hard to enjoy eating when I’m so consumed by her pain.

  My thoughts revert to what I was thinking about this morning. Before Dee came into the kitchen. The love I have for my children. How surprising it is. How powerful. How potentially brutal. How I would kill for them, if it came down to it. How desperately I want to punch Aidan Ryan, knock him to the ground, kick at him with all my strength, with everything I have in me, over and over again, until his chest caves in on itself, until he fully appreciates the pain that my daughter is in. Because of him.

  Sophie would be horrified if she knew I had thoughts like these. So would Dee.

  I don’t understand it, I just don’t. How can she love him? How can she live under the same bloody roof as him? How? I ask you.

  After what he’s done to her?

  3

  Chloe

  Dr Wheatley gives me a probing look from behind his glasses. ‘So what exactly is the problem, Mrs Ryan? Is it that Jasmin won’t go to bed? Or is it more that she won’t stay in bed?’

  Mrs Ryan. That hurts. So much so I momentarily lose concentration. The thing is, I was Mrs Ryan when I booked this appointment, ten weeks ago. I even complained to Aidan about having to wait so long. He was living with us then, he was ours.

  I glance over at my daughter, who’s kicking her heel against the leg of the chair she’s sitting on. ‘Jasmin goes to bed without any trouble. We have a routine – dinner, shower, read for about twenty minutes, lights out. It’s usually about 9 p.m. She’s tired, often yawning, when I kiss her goodnight. Everything’s good for the first half-hour or so.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then she gets up. Comes downstairs. Says she’s not tired any more. We – I mean, I – put her straight back to bed. Ten minutes later, she gets up again. And every five to ten minutes after that, until she gets to the point where she refuses to go back to her room. It’s late by then. She’s extremely agitated, I’m at the end of my tether, both of us are too wound up to feel the slightest bit sleepy. I’ve tried lying down next to her. I’ve tried warm baths, yoga, bribery. I’ve tried everything under the sun. Nothing works. Nothing. Last night it was 2 a.m. before she finally fell asleep. That’s five hours’ sleep before I had to wake her for school … She’s only nine years old – all the experts say she should be having at least ten hours a night. She’s exhausted. I’m exhausted …’

  My voice breaks. Don’t cry. Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t cry in front of this man, this stranger. He’ll think you’re the one who needs the psychologist, and he’d be right, because I barely recognize myself these days. This tense, erratic, slightly hysterical woman – is she really me?

  ‘It’s all right,’ he says, his gaze becoming kind.

  ‘Sorry, I’m tired, emotional. You must think –’

  ‘I don’t think anything at all, Mrs Ryan. I’m just here to listen, ask questions, and help you.’

  But I’m not Mrs Ryan any more – at least not in the true meaning of the term. ‘My husband and I …’ Jasmin stops fidgeting and turns her head to stare at me. ‘Just call me Chloe.’

  ‘Thanks, Chloe. And I prefer to be called Matthew.’ He looks at Jasmin and smiles. He has a nice smile. It’s slow, and it stays on his face for what seems to be a long time. ‘It’s better to be informal, I think. Makes it easier to chat about things … When did sleeping start to become an issue?’

  ‘More than a year ago. It was a gradual thing; she started to take longer and longer to settle down at night. We tried to solve it ourselves. Relaxation techniques, reward charts, consequences …’

  ‘Does Jasmin have siblings?’

  ‘No.’ Now I want to cry again. Because I always imagined myself with a brood of brown-eyed children. ‘We had difficulties …’

  Dr Wheatley – Matthew – nods, as though no further explanation is needed, and then angles his body so he’s facing more towards Jasmin.

  ‘Now, Jasmin, you’re in Year Three, right?’

  Jasmin sits up straight in her seat, ready to talk. ‘No, I’m in Year Four. I’m the youngest in my year. But I’m not the smallest.’

  Matthew hides a smile. ‘Who’s the smallest?’

  ‘Jessica Zang. And Daniel Morgan is the smallest boy.’

  ‘Right … And do you like school?’

  Jasmin frowns, as though the answer should be obvious. ‘Yeees.’

  It’s such a blessing that she loves school. She’s happy to go every morning and is fu
ll of talk when she comes home. Homework isn’t a problem, or class speeches or other projects. ‘An enthusiastic student’, her end-of-year report said. I’m lucky. I know from talking to other mums that not all children enjoy school life the way Jasmin does. They have trouble learning, or paying attention, or behaving themselves. Then again, at least those children go to sleep at night. ‘Your teacher? Do you like him?’

  ‘She’s a lady, not a man. I really like Mrs Stanley. She’s my favourite teacher so far. Except for Mrs Burns, who I had in Year One.’

  Matthew pauses to make some notes before taking a slightly different direction. ‘Is there anything worrying you when you go to bed?’

  Jasmin looks surprised at the thought. ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing about school, or your teacher, or some other kids who might not be nice?’

  ‘You mean Nathan Finnerty?’

  ‘Yes, Nathan Finnerty, for example. Does he pick on you?’

  ‘No, I keep out of his way.’

  ‘And who are your best friends, Jasmin?’

  ‘Amelia, Jessica, Lilianna, Eva, Stephanie …’

  Jasmin has accumulated a nice group of friends, which is reassuring. New names pop up on a regular basis, such as Amelia. I should call the mother, organize a play date.

  Matthew makes a few more notes before dropping his pen and leaning back in his seat. ‘What are you thinking of when you’re lying there in bed? Before you get up the first time?’

  ‘Stuff.’

  ‘Like?’

  Jasmin shrugs, then fiddles with her hair. It’s the first time she’s struggled to answer. ‘I don’t know. My thoughts move around. They’re eclectic.’

  Jasmin collects words in the way other children collect stamps or toys or shells. She picks them up, examines them, stores them away, and enjoys showing them off, especially to strangers.

  ‘And later, when you’re upset, what are you thinking?’

  ‘That I want to be like other kids. To fall asleep as soon as I go to bed, and not always be really, really tired.’

  Sleep is such a simple thing. A simple, everyday thing that we all take for granted. But when it’s a problem, lives begin to unravel, personalities begin to change … for the worse. Children who are usually bright and obliging turn into little horrors. And parents become cross and mean and nothing like their true selves.

  ‘And how’s school the next day? Do you find it hard to concentrate? Are you sleepy?’

  ‘Some of the time …’ Jasmin concedes with an embarrassed glance in my direction. ‘But I can usually make myself snap out of it.’

  ‘How do you do that?’

  ‘By asking to go to the toilet. Or the water bubblers. The fresh air wakes me up. Sometimes I splash water on my face.’

  These are the lengths my daughter has to go to in order to remain focused in class.

  I clear a lump from my throat. ‘From what we’ve told you, do you have any idea what could be causing this … this … inability to fall asleep?’

  Matthew takes a few moments to collect his thoughts. ‘There could be any number of issues causing this problem. The best way to approach it is methodically – ruling out possibilities one by one.’

  ‘But you must have some idea.’ Desperation whooshes through me. I need a name for this, some way of labelling it, so I can begin to understand it, deal with it, stop it from consuming our lives. ‘With your experience, I imagine that you have seen many similar cases …’

  He remains infuriatingly firm. ‘I don’t like to put names on things, Chloe. Not until I gather enough evidence. Try to be patient while I go through the process. To start with, I have some questionnaires. There’s one for Jasmin herself, and for you and your husband, and for Jasmin’s teacher.’ Matthew swings his chair around to face the shelves behind his desk and extracts a lever-arch folder from a line of similar folders. ‘Please ask the teacher to return the completed form directly to me. Also, it’s best that you and your husband complete your questionnaires independently. Any kind of conferring detracts from the results and that won’t help Jasmin.’

  No more excuses, Chloe. You must tell him. You should have brought it up at the start. Now, don’t start crying. Strong voice. And don’t look at Jasmin. ‘We don’t live together … Aidan and I have recently separated.’

  He pauses, and looks up from under his glasses. ‘Did the sleeping problem become worse after the separation?’

  ‘No, not really.’ My cheeks ache from the effort of holding back tears.

  ‘Will Jasmin’s father be willing to fill out the questionnaire?’

  ‘Yes, he’s very thorough like that.’ A giveaway wobble in my voice. Oh, for pity’s sake! Now, he knows. He can tell that the separation was not my idea, that it goes against all that I am, and that it hurts so badly it’s all I can do to contain a howl of pure agony.

  ‘Well, that’s enough for today, I think …’

  What? The session is over? It can’t be. Pull yourself together, Chloe. This is about Jasmin. That’s why we’re here. And it’s not ‘enough for today’, thank you very much. What about six hours from now, when the bedtime battle starts all over again?

  ‘Is there any kind of medication we can give her?’

  He adjusts his glasses. ‘Sleeping pills are highly addictive … They’re a last resort, Chloe, especially with children.’

  ‘But what should I do tonight, when we get home?’

  ‘There should be no major change in routine,’ he tells me. ‘It’s best to keep things as they are while we gather the information we need. But do keep a diary – what time Jasmin gets up in the morning, what activities she does, what she eats, what time she goes to bed, etcetera.’

  A diary? Is that all? Why does it feel like we’re at the start of something, rather than the end? How many more sessions until the end? Until we find the answer?

  ‘Hang in there, Chloe. I’ll do my very best to help you. You just have to hang in there.’

  The knowing and kindness in his voice are my undoing. The tears are finally unleashed and gush down my face. Hang in there. What if I can’t? What if I’m not strong enough? The logical part of me understands that there’s a process we must work through to help us solve the problem. And I believe him when he says that he’ll do all that he can to help me. But I feel as if I’m on the precipice of a nervous breakdown, and that Jasmin could collapse at any moment from severe exhaustion.

  I find an old tissue in my handbag and quickly dab my face with it. ‘When do we see you again?’

  Please, not another ten-week wait.

  ‘Tell Sarah at the desk to squeeze you in sometime next week.’

  Sarah is probably used to the nutcase mothers getting priority.

  I scramble to my feet, trying to shield my blotchy face from both Matthew and Jasmin. ‘Time to go, Jazzie. Say thank you.’

  ‘Thanks, Matthew.’

  She didn’t need to be prompted. Jasmin has good manners. Everyone says so.

  A teenage girl with purple hair and numerous piercings on her pallid face sits on a chair in the otherwise empty waiting room. Her arms are wrapped around herself, and she’s rocking back and forth. Matthew’s next client? Jasmin stares at the girl while I settle the bill.

  We emerge into late afternoon in the city. The sun has dropped behind the skyscrapers and everything’s in shade.

  ‘Fancy some McDonald’s?’ I ask on impulse. My next thought is how Aidan would disapprove.

  Jasmin’s face lights up, and for a moment she looks heartbreakingly like her father: the smile, the dimples, the shine in her dark eyes. ‘Really, Mum?’

  ‘I think you’ve earned a treat … I was proud of you in there. You sounded very grown up. You answered everything very clearly. Well done, darling.’

  She’s a marvellous child, she really is. Sweet, honest, eager to please, a joy. Just not at bedtime.

  As we’re sitting munching our way through two Happy Meals, Aidan sends a text.

  How did it go?<
br />
  Rage balloons inside me. He has no right – no right at all – to expect up-to-the-minute status reports. Who does he think he is?

  Her father, that’s who.

  The rage goes just as quickly as it comes. Despite the decisions he’s made, and the fact that he’s broken her heart as well as mine, I can’t deny that he loves her fiercely and is just as desperate as we are to solve this sleeping problem. We’re in this together, the three of us. Besides, I don’t have it in me to hold out on him, to keep him waiting, worrying. I’m not hard enough. I care too much.

  I have to concentrate in order to find the right words to reply to his text, words that don’t betray my confusion, my hurt, my come-and-go anger and – more than anything – my profound sadness.

  No fast answers. We’ll need more sessions.

  There. A cool, businesslike tone … How have we come to this? Aidan living with another woman; communicating about our beloved daughter by text; anger and despair and what seems like a thousand other complex emotions tainting every transaction between us. All this from a family that was once so close and loving and blissfully happy that people used to envy us.

  It’s because of Sophie McCarthy, that’s why.

  It’s awful of me to think this. A dreadful, dreadful sin. It only comes into my head when I’m at my absolute lowest – like now – but a small, despicable part of me wishes that he had killed her outright that day, and that she was completely, irrevocably, out of our lives.

  4

  Aidan

  I miss Jasmin. I miss hauling her out of bed in the mornings, helping her with her homework, all the time we spent together in the car – going to friends’ houses, birthday parties, soccer matches, swimming lessons – talking, laughing, our eyes meeting in the rear-view mirror. I miss the times when her developing sense of humour took me by surprise and made me roar with laughter; the satisfied feeling when I taught her something new – a fact, a technique, an interesting word – and I could practically see the cogs turning in her brain; the times when she used to look to me for advice on school, sport and friends; the times when she thought her dad could do no wrong. At weekends, when I go to make myself a sandwich, it feels strange not to ask, ‘What do you want for lunch, Jazz?’ Damn it, I thought I’d never say this, but I even miss the theatrics at bedtime. The tears, tantrums and lost tempers, and dragging myself into work the next day, not having had enough sleep.