The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  ‘No.’ My eyes fill up. Then my face gets red because I’m embarrassed. I hope that the older boys playing the game don’t notice that I’m being a baby. ‘No.’

  ‘I know you’d like to see more of Dad,’ Mum continues, as though I haven’t spoken. ‘This is a way for you to spend some time together.’

  ‘I don’t want to stay with him and Sophie,’ I say, louder, so she can’t pretend not to have heard. ‘Sophie doesn’t even like me.’

  ‘You know that’s not true.’

  ‘It is true … It is true.’

  ‘No, Jasmin, the truth is the other way around. You don’t like Sophie because you want Daddy to be with me. It’s very normal to feel like this.’

  Mum is right. That is the truth.

  ‘You can’t make me do it. Nobody can make me.’

  ‘Jasmin, darling … Don’t get upset. Take some deep breaths.’

  ‘I’ll be better, Mum,’ I sob, not caring any more about who is watching. ‘I promise I’ll go to bed for you. I’ll try very hard. I promise.’

  I will not get out of bed tonight. Not once. Even if I am awake all night long. I’ll prove to her that I can be good.

  ‘It’s not that, Jasmin. It’s not about the sleeping,’ she says, even though we both know it kind of is. ‘This is about me and Daddy sharing you. It’s what happens when parents separate.’

  ‘Are you and Daddy getting a divorce?’

  She bites down on her lip, and I’m sorry I asked the question and wish I could delete it. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Eventually.’

  Jessica Zang’s parents are divorced. She’s always forgetting whose house she’s going to after school, and last week she was wearing her school uniform on mufti day.

  ‘Daddy and I thought we’d start the new arrangements after Easter,’ Mum says. ‘That should give you time to get used to the idea.’

  I’ll never, ever, ever get used to the idea.

  We walk back to the car and I fling my slushie in the rubbish bin. I’m too sad to drink the rest of it. I’m sadder than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m bereft. Even more than the day Daddy moved out because, even though I cried and cried, I still thought he’d come back. Now I know he isn’t ever coming back. I will have to go to him and stay the night, like a visitor.

  I don’t want to go. They can’t make me.

  Actually, they can make me.

  Now I understand how Daniel Morgan must feel when he’s cornered by Nathan Finnerty at school.

  Trapped. Not able to say the right thing to stop it. Knowing that it’s going to hurt.

  16

  Dee

  Sophie has always been Richard’s favourite. I’m not saying he doesn’t love Jacob. He does, let’s be clear on that, as well as the fact that he’s a good father to both of them: dependable, practical, caring, in his own blustery way. But he has a different chemistry with Sophie. It’s like he comes alive when she’s around. He talks more, laughs more and is more interested, engaged, intense. It’s always been obvious, even when Sophie was little, that he’s completely in awe of how clever and accomplished she is.

  Seeing Sophie like that – with machines keeping her alive and doctors grave about her prospects of making it – was devastating for both of us. Richard’s way of coping was to devote himself to her care and recovery. He also devoted himself to driving her around, keeping tabs on all the medical nitty-gritty and hating Aidan Ryan with all his being. Now, he’s excited that the court date has been set. This morning, he phoned Dr White and some of the other specialists to see if the prosecution has been in contact. He even intends to do some research on the magistrate, to see what kind he is.

  ‘I hope he’s as tough as they come,’ he declares when we sit down to dinner.

  I sigh. ‘And what will that achieve? Sophie has forgiven Aidan. The last thing she wants –’

  ‘She doesn’t know what she wants.’ He’s shouting at me, though he doesn’t realize. It’s his hearing. ‘He’s fooled her –’

  ‘She’s always known what she wants, Richard. Have you ever known anyone so clear-headed and decisive?’

  He can’t argue with this and flounders for a few moments.

  ‘Life has just gone on for him,’ he says finally, pain etched in every word. ‘Life has just gone on, and you know that isn’t fair, Dee.’

  I can see where Richard is coming from, I really can. It is unfair: Aidan’s life being normal while Sophie’s will never be. She’ll carry this with her for ever – pain management will be part of her life until the day she dies. But she has found it in her heart to forgive Aidan and, if she has forgiven him, then we must too.

  ‘Who knows what was going through his head at the time,’ I say gently. ‘I imagine that soldiers see some terrible things that must affect –’

  He comes back, shouting again. ‘Why am I the only bloody one in this family who wants him to be held to account for what he did?’

  Richard scowls at his food before attacking it with his fork. I hate it when he’s like this: vengeful, furious, bloody-minded. It’s like Sophie’s pain is his pain. It’s like he’s living through her. There’s a reason for this: he doesn’t have enough going on in his own life. He should never have retired. Sophie has become his sole focus, and as result he’s stunting her recovery rather than helping it. But he refuses to step back or give her the chance to be more independent.

  ‘I spoke to Jacob today,’ I say, steering the conversation to a safer topic. ‘It’s all systems go for Easter. We’ll have to organize an egg hunt for the kids.’

  Just thinking of my grandchildren is enough to make me genuinely cheerful: Milli and Hugo in our garden, squeals of excitement on finding the eggs, chocolate smears on their little faces. Oh, I cannot wait to get my hands on the two of them. I just wish they lived closer, so that we could see them a few times a week, be as familiar to them as their own parents. Instead, all we get are a few days here and there.

  ‘Maybe we could have Milli and Hugo stay on,’ I say, the idea just occurring to me. ‘Just for a night or two extra. What do you think, Richard? A little adventure with Grandma and Grandpa. You could drive them back home at the end of their stay.’

  At first, Richard seems too distracted to give the idea any serious thought.

  ‘We could take them into the city,’ I persist. ‘Catch a ferry, or a train. Children of that age love transport of all descriptions. We could go to Darling Harbour, have an ice cream at Circular Quay. Oh, it would be fun, Richard.’

  He seems to perk up, come out of himself a little. ‘What about your job, Dee?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll take a few days off. Things are so quiet they’ll probably be relieved … Will I call Jacob after dinner? Suggest it to him?’

  He shrugs. ‘Why not?’

  Jacob seems open to the idea when I phone him up. ‘I just need to clear it with Carolyn. She’s giving them their bath at the moment. Are you sure Dad won’t mind driving them home? It’s a four-hour round trip … It might be a bit much.’

  ‘Oh, Jacob, your father is looking for ways to fill his time. I can assure you it won’t be a problem. Actually, why don’t you have a think if there is anything around the house he can help with while he’s there? He put in a new storage unit for Sophie last week. He can do the same for you, or even some gardening …’

  ‘Mum, you’ll be hiring him out next!’

  I laugh. ‘Oh, he comes free, Jacob. And there aren’t many things in life that are free, are there?’

  We talk for another few minutes, until one of the children starts howling and Jacob says he has to go.

  Richard has already cleaned up the dinner things by the time I hang up. He is a good husband, a good man. Just under-utilized at the moment. Under-utilized and unhealthily obsessed with Sophie: her pain, her career, her house, her relationship with Aidan. Not a good thing, not when your daughter is an adult and should be living her own life.

  At least now I have a short-term answer to the problem. Richard can tr
ansfer his attention to Milli and Hugo, become more involved in their lives, obsess about them instead. There’s no reason at all why he can’t make the journey to Newcastle once a week. Two loveable, unpredictable toddlers to focus on. Some badly needed support for Jacob and Carolyn. Sophie’s back at work and driving again. She doesn’t need Richard as much as either of them thinks.

  I’m not being mean. I’m doing this for Sophie’s sake as much as anyone’s. She’s my daughter, and I love her dearly. But her independence is crucial for her future happiness, and, just like the physical parts of her, it needs to be nursed back to health.

  17

  Hannah

  ‘It was a stupid thing to do,’ Jane confesses when we meet for lunch at a café that’s a safe distance from the office. She seems relieved to admit that she’s made a mistake, a huge professional error her career might struggle to recover from. ‘Mick is wonderful, totally supportive, but he works in construction: people walk off the job all the time, apparently without any long-lasting consequences to their career. He doesn’t really understand all the protocols I’ve broken.’

  It’s good to see her at last. I’ve missed our daily chats, exchanging updates on our kids, the easy similarity of our lives.

  ‘Are the rumours true? Did you really tell Sophie to fuck off?’

  She looks sheepish. ‘It was “Fuck you” actually … Jesus, just thinking about it makes me cringe …’

  I shoot her a sympathetic smile. ‘You were a little crazy that day. I think it was because you were so tired from being up with Zara.’

  Jane nods. ‘At the time it felt like an epiphany. As I stood in her office, I remember thinking, I don’t need to put up with this. The invasion of my home life, the tense atmosphere in the office, the feeling that nothing I do is good enough. The pressure, the bullying, the daily humiliation. I don’t need to put up with it. Of course I realize now that I was delirious with exhaustion, closer to a breakdown than a breakthrough.’

  Our meals arrive. Jane’s having a burger and chips: comfort food, she said when she ordered. My chicken salad (the cheapest thing on the menu) looks like an advert for healthy eating by comparison.

  Jane chews on a chip and continues berating herself. ‘She’d only been back a couple of weeks, for Christ’s sake. Surely I could have lasted longer, stuck it out while I figured out an exit plan? I wish I could press the rewind button and put myself back in her office. I would keep my mouth shut. OK, maybe I would put on record that I thought the warning was unfair, but that would be it. I certainly wouldn’t resign …’

  ‘Or tell her to fuck herself,’ I suggest in a diplomatic tone, and we both burst out laughing.

  She smirks. ‘Then again, it felt so good to say it, to let it out … I’d been dying to say it for years.’

  We laugh again, and then concentrate on our meals for a while. My salad is fresh and flavoursome, but I can’t help gazing longingly at Jane’s chips. Maybe I should have ordered some comfort food too. Work is busier than ever. Jane has left some big shoes to fill.

  ‘So, Mick was fine about it?’ I ask eventually.

  She snorts. ‘He actually laughed, the idiot. The financial consequences didn’t register … They might next month, when my salary is missing from our bank account.’

  Thank God for Mick. Jane has his income to fall back on, as well as his moral support. She doesn’t realize how lucky she is.

  ‘So, what’s the plan now? Are you looking for something new?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I went as far as updating my résumé, and clicked through a few job search websites, but I still feel too raw to be going for interviews, to be putting myself out there. I think I need some resolution before I can look for something else.’

  I glance up from my food. ‘Resolution?’

  ‘Yes … Look, I know that I was the one who actually said the words, who resigned, but I feel like Sophie was deliberately trying to catch me out. Her email on the Sunday night, when she knew it was too late for me to be able to do anything but a rush job. The warning she gave me straight after the board meeting. Jesus Christ, she wouldn’t have had that much time to think it through. And it was only an inconsistent assumption … It happens all the time. Embarrassing that John Greenland picked it up, I get that. Anyone else but Sophie would’ve had my back, though. Isn’t that what bosses do? Take the flak? It’s as though Sophie had been waiting for the right opportunity to teach me a lesson …’

  ‘So how, exactly, are you going to get resolution?’ I enquire, pushing my plate – with quite a lot of green leaves left on it – to one side and resting my elbows on the table.

  ‘By hiring a lawyer … and lodging an unfair-dismissal application … Want some of my chips?’

  I pop one in my mouth. As I suspected, it’s infinitely nicer than lettuce leaves. ‘But you weren’t exactly dismissed, were you?’

  ‘Dismissal can include resignation if the resignation was forced by the conduct of the employer,’ she says, then grins, ‘That’s a quote directly from the Fair Work website.’

  Interesting. But I don’t know if I agree that her resignation was forced.

  ‘I see. Well, I –’ My ring tone interrupts me mid-sentence. I glance down at the screen. ‘Speak of the devil.’

  ‘You shouldn’t answer that. You’re on your lunch break, for Christ’s sake.’ Jane seems to realize how harsh she sounds and smiles, to take the edge off. ‘Sorry, Hannah. I don’t mean to be bossy. It’s your business how you handle Sophie.’

  True, it is my business. Sophie has certainly upped the ante these last few weeks, my phone ringing more at night and weekends with requests that supposedly can’t wait. But I’m managing it, managing her. At least, I think I am. More often than not I do what she asks, because I’m still enjoying the work. Besides, it’s a short-term thing: the recruitment process has started for Jane’s replacement and everything should revert to normal when the new person starts. Then I’ll be lamenting how boring my job is again.

  ‘Actually, I seem to be getting on OK with her,’ I say awkwardly.

  Jane looks slightly miffed at this. ‘Well, there’s no problem, then.’

  The waitress comes and asks if we’d like coffee.

  ‘Have you got enough time?’ Jane checks, obviously keen.

  ‘I’ll have a quick one.’

  The waitress goes again, and Jane apologizes. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped the mark. You obviously have a different relationship with Sophie. We’re toxic, me and her. Too much has happened between us. Too much history.’

  Almost by agreement, we change the subject. For the next few minutes we talk about our kids. Jane’s youngest, Madison, winning the school cross-country, showing grit and stamina that her parents didn’t know she had. Jane is particularly thrilled she was at the finish line to jump and cheer.

  ‘I’m always at work for school cross-country. I took about five hundred photos, although the poor thing was beetroot and so tired she could hardly stand on the podium.’

  My phone rings again. I turn it off and toss it back on the table. I want Jane to see that I am setting boundaries, that I can manage this.

  Jane stares at my phone for so long it’s as though she’s gone into a trance. Then we’re right back to where we left off: Sophie. ‘Once, when I was at the funeral of a friend, she tried to phone me four or five times. She knew where I was that day. I distinctly remember telling her that Alice had died from breast cancer and I would need to take a day off for the funeral. I remember crying in Sophie’s office. Alice had gone downhill so fast I was in shock. Sophie – surprisingly – was quite sympathetic. “Take whatever time off you need,” she said, or something along those lines. The funeral mass was in one of those lovely old churches in the city. The family had asked me – one of her closest friends – to do the eulogy. As I was standing at the lectern, sharing with the other mourners what I loved about Alice and why I would miss her so much, trying to keep my tears and nervousness in check, my ph
one vibrated in my pocket: Sophie. Later, when we walked behind the coffin to the waiting hearse, my phone started to go again. And then, in the function room of the pub where we shared stories, cried some more, and got very drunk, Sophie tried to get hold of me several more times. In the end, Mick lost patience, grabbing the phone out of my hand, and bellowing, “We’re at a bloody funeral, Sophie. Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow.” ’

  ‘That’s awful, Jane. She must have forgotten where you were.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Jane concedes. ‘But that doesn’t change how she made me feel that day: hounded, harassed, like my grief didn’t matter to her.’

  I wonder who gets to decide about the unfair dismissal. How much weight will be put on incidents like this? I know Sophie must have forgotten that Jane was at a funeral. If I can arrive at this explanation, then whoever decides the unfair dismissal will too. They’ll see a boss who works her staff very hard, trying to get the best out of them. They’ll see a staff member who feels badgered and constantly under pressure. But more than anything they’ll see a clash of personalities, two women who are refusing to meet in the middle, to cooperate with each other.

  I stand up, leaving my half-finished coffee behind.

  ‘I’d better get back … I’ll tell everyone you said hello.’

  Jane nods, bites down on her lip. ‘I miss them … I miss my job … Jesus, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut and put a complaint through HR instead.’

  ‘I know, I know. But maybe it’s not a bad thing it came to a head.’

  ‘The adrenaline was short-lived,’ she admits, close to tears now. ‘I felt like throwing up afterwards.’

  I wish I could stay longer, give her the reassurance she needs that it will all be OK, that things have a way of working out. But I’ve been gone almost an hour and have stacks of work to get through before I can go home this evening.

  I take my purse from my bag, getting ready to leave my share of the bill.

  She waves me away. ‘My treat.’