The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  ‘Flipping heck, Jane. You’re unemployed, if you hadn’t noticed.’

  This makes her laugh. ‘It’s a thank-you for allowing me to bend your ear. As I said, Mick doesn’t get it.’

  When she rang to make the arrangements for today I initially suggested a sandwich in the park. She snorted, saying she didn’t want to come all the way into the city for a boring old sandwich. Her offer to pay makes me suspect that she knows I don’t have the means for too many lunches like this.

  I bend down to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Let’s do it again soon. My treat next time.’

  I weave my way through the tightly packed tables in the café, my thoughts still on Jane: how funny and generous and smart she is, and how Sophie is her Achilles heel.

  Once outside, I turn on my phone again. Only the two missed calls from Sophie. See, nothing to get stressed about.

  18

  Richard

  ‘Have you checked the shed …’ Dee prompts, when the kids, their baskets full of Cadbury mini eggs, wrongly assume that the hunt is over.

  ‘The shed,’ Hugo parrots, and lunges in that direction.

  ‘Great,’ Carolyn mutters. ‘More chocolate.’

  Jacob takes her hand in his. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll sneak some for ourselves.’

  It’s good to have them here. Dee is right, we should do this more often. I think the car trip has put them off. Two small children, only fifteen months apart, with at least one of them – if not both – likely to scream the whole way down the motorway. Two hours of driving is not much. I suppose two hours of screaming is.

  Jacob seems to read my thoughts. ‘It wasn’t so bad this time … They were pretty good in the car.’

  ‘Yes, they were.’ Carolyn’s gaze falls on Milli, who’s frowning in concentration as she endeavours to unwrap the foil from one of the eggs. ‘Hopefully, they’ll be just as well behaved tonight.’

  It’s obvious that Carolyn is anxious about leaving the kids with us. According to Dee, she’s never had a night away from them. What’s the worst that could happen? One of them getting hurt. Or being sick during the night. Or getting out of bed and somehow escaping the house without Dee or me hearing. Truth be told, I’m a bit anxious myself.

  Milli has figured out the foil wrapping and is already on her second egg.

  Carolyn drops Jacob’s hand. ‘OK, that’s enough. We’ll put the rest away for later. After lunch.’

  Hugo reluctantly delivers his basket into his mother’s outstretched hand but Milli isn’t so easily persuaded.

  ‘No.’

  Milli says no even when she means yes but this time she’s saying exactly what she means. She has a formidable look on her face, and it’s clear there’s no way of recovering the basket without forcibly prising away each one of those stubby, chocolate-stained fingers.

  ‘No,’ Milli repeats, in case there is any doubt.

  ‘Yes,’ Carolyn and Jacob say, in perfect unison.

  ‘Noooooooo. No. Noooooo. No. Noooooo.’

  ‘We call this the “No” song,’ Jacob says cheerfully. ‘It has a catchy melody and beat. Milli needs to work on the lyrics.’

  I laugh. It’s not right to encourage Milli’s defiance, but I can’t help being delighted by her.

  Jacob sweeps his daughter into his arms, Carolyn swipes the basket from her loosened grip, and then Jacob pivots her so she’s upside down. ‘The best thing about this manoeuvre is that it not only distracts her but gives me the satisfying illusion of emptying all those negative thoughts out of her stubborn little head.’

  Milli squeals, I laugh again, and then the garden gate rattles. Sophie and Aidan are here.

  Two stuffed toys – rabbits – are propped in each of Sophie’s arms. Buck teeth, floppy ears and oversized, glassy eyes that seem to stare at us all. ‘Happy Easter,’ she says.

  Milli kicks until Jacob turns her the right way up and sets her down. ‘Bunny … Bunny.’

  Hugo jumps up and down on the spot. ‘The Easter Bunny’s here. The Easter Bunny’s here.’

  Milli moves fast for such a sturdy girl. Within seconds she’s at Sophie’s legs, her chubby hands reaching up.

  ‘Bunny, bunny, bunny,’ she chants.

  ‘Hello, Milli.’ Sophie bends down to hand the rabbit to her niece.

  ‘Say thank you,’ Carolyn instructs, sounding unnecessarily terse.

  ‘Dank you,’ Milli says, in a rare moment of obedience, and toddles off, the rabbit almost the same size as she is.

  Hugo receives his bunny and prances around the garden with it.

  Well, this should make Dee happy: she’s always going on about how Sophie should make more of an effort with the kids. She even complains when Sophie puts money in a birthday or Christmas card.

  ‘Money means nothing at this age.’

  These rabbits would’ve taken some thought; they’re clearly not something Sophie happened across at the newsagent’s or chemist’s. She must have gone shopping with Hugo and Milli specifically in mind.

  Aidan comes to shake hands with Jacob and me. Jacob looks every bit as awkward as I do. When was the last time these two met? Have they seen each other since the hospital?

  ‘Now, who’d like a drink?’ Dee asks.

  Aidan nods. ‘A beer would be good.’

  ‘Sophie, would you like anything?’

  ‘No, thanks … I’m driving.’

  I should ask how the Golf is going, but I can’t seem to find the words. I suppose I’m still hurt that she didn’t consult me.

  ‘Carolyn? Jacob? Richard?’

  Jacob asks for a beer, Carolyn a wine, and I decide to stick to water. My mood seems to have plummeted since that bastard walked through the garden gate as though he had a right to be here.

  By the time Dee’s distributed the drinks, Milli has found Aidan. She and her rabbit are perched on his hip. Her eyes are fixed on his face, studying him, as though he is the most fascinating man she has seen in her life. Milli is a funny little thing, given to strong likes and dislikes. She has obviously decided that Aidan falls into the former category, and has staked her claim on him early. I can see Dee watching closely. Later on she’ll say to me that children are a good judge of character. Rubbish.

  ‘She’s pretty heavy,’ Carolyn says to Aidan. ‘Feel free to let her down.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ He hoists her higher. ‘I miss it. Jazzie is nine now …’

  ‘Time for lunch,’ Dee says briskly. She finds it insulting that Aidan’s daughter gets to stay in Sophie’s spare room, when her own niece and nephew have hardly set foot in the house. At least we’re agreed on that.

  Lunch is roast beef and dessert is strawberry meringue, Dee’s speciality. I have flashbacks to other Sunday dinners around this same table, realizing that we were happier then. The split (Jacob and Dee in one camp, me and Sophie in another) has become more distinct over the years, the differences of opinion more pronounced. Now, with Aidan in the picture, tension levels are at an all-time high. I want to say something about the court date, but both Dee and Sophie would be furious.

  Jacob gets up midway through the meal to help himself to another beer.

  ‘The food will absorb it,’ he says, in answer to my frown.

  Then he has a second helping of lunch and it’s Carolyn’s turn to frown.

  ‘You’ll have no room left for our dinner tonight.’

  Dee asks where they’re going for dinner. Carolyn tells her about the posh restaurant she’s booked but I can’t catch all the details because it’s difficult to hear when there are a few conversations going on at once. Hugo is blabbering on about Spiderman, mainly to Aidan, who’s sitting next to him, and Jacob is talking quietly to Milli, coaxing spoonfuls of mash into her mutinous mouth. Sophie isn’t saying much. I don’t know if it’s because she isn’t feeling well or because of the lack of rapport between her and Jacob. They don’t really get along and, like Dee, I struggle to understand why. Sophie likes to admire people, and maybe she thinks – quite wro
ngly – there’s nothing she can admire about Jacob. Or maybe she gets annoyed because she feels that he doesn’t admire her enough or doesn’t give her any credit for her achievements. The need to admire and to be admired is wound in there somewhere, I know that for sure, in addition to the fact that they used to squabble a lot when they were kids. Let’s just say that they don’t bring out the best in each other, Sophie and Jacob. It’s upsetting for both Dee and me.

  Carolyn and Jacob leave straight after lunch.

  ‘Bye, Mum! Bye, Dad!’ Hugo yells cheerfully, holding Dee’s hand as we all stand by the kerb to wave them off.

  Milli doesn’t look happy to be left behind, but at least she’s not bawling her eyes out. She and her rabbit are reinstalled on Aidan’s hip.

  ‘Well, it looks like we were worrying for nothing,’ Carolyn says through the open window of the car, sounding a little put out about the children’s nonchalance.

  ‘It’s good, right?’ Dee says brightly. ‘We don’t want tears.’

  ‘Yes, it’s good … Is it silly to miss them already?’

  Jacob takes off before Dee has the chance to answer.

  ‘We should get going too,’ Sophie says, when Jacob’s car is out of sight. ‘Thanks for lunch, Mum.’

  It takes some time to extract Milli from Aidan. She starts sobbing when he puts her down, turning on a waterworks show that was strangely missing for the departure of her parents. Sophie starts the car. The engine sounds gravelly and I can’t help noticing some scratches on the paintwork. Why the bloody hell didn’t she ask me to look it over?

  As we go inside with the children my thoughts – without warning, without my permission – jump from Sophie’s current car to her previous one, a dark-grey Mazda 3. Brand-new, it was. I negotiated a great price with the dealer and Sophie and I went for a drink afterwards, to celebrate. When I think of it: clinking our wine glasses, laughing gleefully about the discount, no inkling at all that only a few months later the Mazda would become a mangled jumble of metal holding up peak-hour traffic on Anzac Parade.

  19

  Sophie

  It was an accident. I was minding my own business, driving to work. He was driving his wife to a doctor’s appointment, I heard later on. Traffic was moving, for once. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if the traffic had been going at its usual snail’s pace. Or – if it was destined to happen – then at least it would have been less serious. Sadly, it did happen, and at relatively high speed, and it was serious. The first I knew was when I saw a flash of silver loom in front of me. And I had a moment when I thought, That’s odd, where has that come from? The very next moment my little Mazda was crushing into it – a silver four-wheel drive – and I was flung against the steering wheel, the air bags bursting open all around me, and the pain … I can’t properly describe it. I’m dead, I thought. There’s no way I can survive this kind of pain. I’m dead.

  Aidan’s car came out much better than mine. It was stronger and larger, and both he and Chloe were able to walk away from the accident. I was still conscious when he tried to open the buckled door of my car, to see if I was OK. Apparently I asked him if it was my fault. Then I blacked out.

  Every day at work we analyse the statistics of such accidents. We set car-insurance premiums on the basis of driver history and age, car make and model, the mileage of the vehicle, the postcode where it’s garaged, and all sorts of factors – including data on accidents – that we consider relevant. But the fact is, most accidents happen for no obvious reason, or due to a series of unlikely events culminating in disaster. Wrong place, wrong time. In Aidan’s case it was a momentary lack of concentration. We all have those, don’t we? We’ve all gone through a red light, or a stop sign, and laughed nervously on the other side about how stupid we are. Aidan simply didn’t see me, pulled out right in front of me, and I hit him full force at seventy kilometres an hour. Almost a year later I’m still feeling the reverberations of the impact, and I’ve only really just grasped that I will for the rest of my life. Aidan’s momentary loss of concentration has cost me a lot: two months of my life in hospital, nine months out of work; my confidence in my appearance; my fitness and agility; my faith in having a successful career and future. Not to mention the on–off boyfriend I had at the time of the accident.

  But Aidan got it. He understood the enormity of what he’d done to me. How he had wrecked my body, and my life as it was. And he was apologetic, so genuinely apologetic that he got under my skin. I’m quite sure his legal counsel would have advised against any contact, but he stuck to his principles and faced up to me, turning up at my hospital bed, begging me to allow him to make good what he had done. He admitted full responsibility. There was no shirking, or twisting facts, or glossing over the truth of what had happened. He brought me books, games and flowers. Chloe came once, with some magazines.

  ‘We’re so sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Both of us. You did nothing wrong, yet you are here …’

  I had no interest in listening to her apologies, and I feigned sleepiness. She didn’t stay long.

  Aidan would come to the hospital after work, in his fatigues. Handsome, commanding, exotic in my sterile hospital room. I saw how the nurses sized him up, and I began to look forward to his visits. He apologized over and over again, to me, to Mum and Dad, to Jacob, to the doctors who were treating me, to anyone who would listen. This was a man who couldn’t bear to do wrong, who was completely tortured at the thought of the hurt he’d inflicted on me.

  It was an accident, even though ‘accident’ seems too tame a word to describe it. Calamity? Catastrophe? The worst day of my life? But some good did come of it. I met Aidan. Granted, not the most romantic way to meet my future partner. Certainly not the most straightforward, with police and doctors and distraught families to contend with. He continued to stay in contact after the hospital, calling around to my house, doing what he could: changing light bulbs, mowing the grass, before moving on to more intimate chores, like hanging out my washing and making meals (and every now and then he would stay on and eat with me). It was months before I admitted to him that I loved him, and another few months before he reciprocated, saying that he had feelings too, and more months again before he was prepared to leave his family (he moved in with a friend for a few weeks before moving in with me). The guilt he still carries over that fateful morning is now combined with the guilt about leaving Chloe and Jasmin. I have never met such an honourable man. It was one of the things that attracted me to him – the honour, the honesty, the strength of character. Now I can see that it’s both a good thing and a bad thing. Aidan’s guilty conscience is a weight on our relationship. Chloe and Jasmin are never far from his thoughts. Sometimes it feels as though they’re in the house with us, forever hovering in the background, silently urging Aidan to come back to them.

  But I love him, and he loves me. Yes, we met in terrible circumstances. Yes, it’s unfortunate that he was married. And, yes, everyone seems to have an opinion about our relationship: that it’s doomed, that I only fell for him because I was terribly vulnerable, and that his feelings were spawned from guilt. I’ve heard it all before, hundreds of times, mostly from Mum and Dad.

  ‘He has a family.’

  ‘It won’t last.’

  ‘You were at your lowest, your weakest.’

  It will last. Aidan isn’t the first man to leave his family because he’s fallen in love with someone else. He fought his feelings, tried to deny them for Chloe and Jasmin’s sake, but in the end they were simply too strong to suppress. And my feelings are just as powerful. Not only do I love Aidan, I admire him. He maintains high standards in all aspects of his life. He’s smart. He’s extremely competent and can-do. He has determination, self-discipline, courage. There’s a lot to admire. And come on, aren’t I entitled to some happiness? Aren’t I entitled to him? Haven’t I sacrificed more than Chloe has ever had to sacrifice? Not to mention the role fate has had in all this. Now I’m not big on fate, or destiny, or any of that psychic rubbish. B
ut seriously, you have to ask yourself, what are the chances? Of him pulling out exactly when he did. Of me being in that stretch of road exactly when I was. Of our cars colliding. Of the undeniable, powerful chemistry between us as we got to know one another.

  Another thing I feel like telling all the detractors is: Don’t underestimate our strength. We’re fighters, both of us. We’ll get through whatever ups and downs are ahead. Aidan and I have endurance beyond what anyone can even begin to understand or imagine.

  20

  Chloe

  I was there when it happened, the moment we cut off Sophie McCarthy on her way to work, the moment our marriage fell apart. I was there, but I wasn’t looking. My thoughts weren’t on the cars whizzing past on the main road we were trying to join. My thoughts were elsewhere: the fertility clinic on the other side of town. If we were going to be late for our appointment. If the transfer would work this time. If the embryo they’d chosen had XX or XY chromosomes, and Jasmin – nine months from now – would have a little brother or a little sister. I remember feeling jittery with excitement – we’d been waiting such a long time for this. I was apprehensive too – what if it didn’t work again? I couldn’t bear the disappointment. And I was annoyed that we were behind schedule – Jasmin had been particularly hard to coax out of bed and we’d been slightly late dropping her at her friend’s house (the mother was going to take both girls on to school). The very last thing on my mind was Aidan’s driving.

  That’s what’s so maddening: I normally look whenever Aidan pulls out, and I almost always say something: Go. You’re all right. Wait. Hurry up. It’s an automatic reflex and, even though I know it’s annoying, I can’t seem to help it. It exasperates Aidan, the fact that I can’t shut up and let him drive. But I didn’t look that morning. I didn’t tell him to stop, to wait. I didn’t warn him that there was not enough space, not nearly enough time, or that the oncoming car was practically upon us. The first I knew was the violent jolt, my ear belting against the side window and Aidan yelling out.