The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy Page 4

  It’s like Dr White is issuing a challenge, and Sophie being Sophie, she’s already squaring her shoulders. The fighter in her is mentally pulling up her sleeves, drawing on the grit and determination she will need to be in that ‘small percentage’.

  ‘I’ll look forward to seeing how you are in August, Sophie. Good luck.’

  Luck. Now that’s something I’ve thought a lot about over the last nine months. Yes, there’s no doubt at all that Sophie is lucky to be alive, and luckier again to be able to walk in and out of the doctor’s office unassisted. The nerves could have been pulled clean from the spinal cord, or they could have been severed completely.

  But luck is a matter of perspective. As her father, as someone who saw all her infinite potential shattered into pieces, as someone who witnesses her daily grapple with pain and her personality shift as a result, as someone who knows that returning to work on even a part-time basis will push her to the very limits of her endurance, unlucky is the word that comes most to mind, even though I try hard – bloody hard – to make myself think differently.

  6

  Sophie

  It’s even harder than I expected. Getting up at the first trill of the alarm clock. Showering, straightening my hair, putting on make-up. Dressing, having breakfast, being ready by a nominated time. It’s 8 a.m. when Dad pulls up outside the house, and I already feel as if I’ve done a full day’s work.

  Dad reaches across and swings open the passenger door. ‘Morning, sweetheart. Hop in. The traffic’s bloody terrible.’

  His car is like him: vintage. When he retired, he splurged some of his lump sum on a fat 1980s Mercedes, and it swallows more of his lump sum every day, guzzling fuel and constantly needing expensive repairs. As I turn – perhaps a margin too quickly – to put on my seatbelt, I feel a burning sensation across my chest. I should be more careful.

  Dad’s right about the traffic.

  ‘The round trip is going to take you for ever,’ I say when we come to yet another halt. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to take up your whole morning.’

  ‘Ah, what else would I be doing?’ he asks, shooting me a wry smile.

  Other, more important things, my mother would reply if she were here. Mum makes it clear that she doesn’t approve of Dad being my chauffeur. She thinks his time would be better spent on other tasks, and that I should be more independent.

  ‘She’s not a princess, Richard.’

  ‘Darling, Sophie can’t rely on you for everything. She’s a grown woman.’

  ‘Richard, you’re spoiling her …’

  She makes these protestations right in front of me. Dad and I roll our eyes, before proceeding to do our own thing anyway. My friends have always found it odd that I’m closer to Dad than Mum. It’s not that I don’t love Mum, it’s just that our personalities are polar opposites. Mum potters through life. She’s had no career to speak of, and she finds my ambition and self-discipline quite confounding. Jacob’s just as lacking in focus as she is. He’s been stuck in the same job for years, renting the same dreary three-bedroom house, happily lining someone else’s pockets when he should have got on the property ladder ages ago. I don’t have much in common with my brother. But Dad’s like me, or I’m like Dad – whatever way you want to look at it. We’re both career-focused (Dad was chief financial officer in a pharmaceuticals company before he was offered an early-retirement package last year), and we share a lot of the same values: attention to detail; doggedness; always striving for our personal best. Dad and I have always got along. Mum and Jacob sometimes act like it’s a bad thing to have get-up-and-go.

  Neither Dad nor I is a great morning conversationalist so we let the talk show on the radio fill the car with chatter and laughter. Despite the excruciating stop–start nature of the journey, I feel my mood begin to lift. Maybe it’s the hubbub of rush hour rubbing off on me, the thought of all these cars, all these people converging on the city. Or maybe it’s the somehow exhilarating sight of the high-rise buildings that form Sydney’s skyline. This morning, I’m part of it: the rush hour, the city, the excitement, the promise. It’s been so long since I’ve been part of anything.

  My old confidence struggles to the surface – groggy, tentative, but there.

  You can do this, Sophie. You can do this.

  It takes fifty minutes to get within the vicinity of Real Cover Insurance, where I have worked for the last six years (although I am not sure I can legitimately count the last nine months).

  ‘I’ll have to leave you out here.’ Dad’s a bit flustered by the traffic now. It’s clear to both of us that I’ll be getting public transport from here on in. ‘I think you’ll walk the last few blocks faster than I can bloody drive them. Will you be OK?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ I lean over, kiss his cheek.

  ‘Good luck, sweetheart.’ His voice cracks. He’s the only one who really understands. ‘Don’t push yourself too hard.’

  ‘I won’t. Thanks again, Dad.’

  Getting out of cars isn’t easy. Don’t rush: that’s the main thing I’ve learned. All those years when I scrambled out in an inelegant flurry of arms and legs.

  ‘Good luck,’ Dad says again, before I shut the door.

  The car behind him hoots and he hastily pulls away, only to stop again a few metres up the street. For a while I stand still on the footpath, the city surging around me. The traffic, the people, the colours, the noise, the smell of petrol fumes and coffee beans – I breathe it all deep into my lungs. I’ve missed it. Even more than I realized.

  Real Cover Insurance is spread across three floors in one of the many office towers on Kent Street. Our slogan is blazed across the wall behind the reception desk: Keep it real with real cover. I don’t recognize the receptionist. She must be new. Where has Sandy gone? Sandy’s like a permanent fixture in the company, one of the longest-standing employees, and I’m thrown by her absence. Should I stop and introduce myself to this receptionist, or proceed through to the offices behind? The fact that she’s clearly busy on the phone decides me. I’ll make a point of introducing myself later. My access card still works, and I pause for the slightest moment before I push open the security door and step back into my old life.

  I pass the call centre, a babble of voices coming from heads framed with oversized earphones. I nod at a few familiar faces in the Home Insurance department, smiling vaguely at the surprised ‘good morning’s thrown in my direction. Then it’s Travel and Income Protection, before my own department: Motor. Disappointingly, the first person I come across is Jane. She’s standing outside the kitchen, a mug in her hand, deep in discussion with another woman whom I don’t recognize. They seem relaxed, enjoying their conversation, and in no evident rush to start their working day. Some things never change.

  Jane finally notices me.

  ‘Oh, hi, Sophie. Welcome back.’ She sounds resoundingly insincere.

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply stiffly.

  ‘This is Hannah,’ Jane continues, glancing at her companion. ‘Hannah’s new. She’s going to be your admin assistant, but you have to share her with Peter.’ Jane laughs lightly. ‘No fighting now.’

  Alyssa, the HR person, already called me to explain the new reporting lines. I’m not crazy about sharing my admin assistant but I guess that, if I’m part-time, my assistant must be too.

  ‘Hello, Sophie,’ Hannah says quietly.

  Now that I’m looking closer, Hannah seems vaguely familiar. Maybe she’s transferred from another department. With over three hundred people and a relatively high staff turnover rate, it’s hard to keep track of everyone.

  ‘You look good, Sophie,’ Jane says, her eyes sweeping over me. ‘Healthy.’

  What can I say, except that looks can be deceiving? That’s one of the most frustrating parts of all this: I don’t look as if there’s anything wrong with me. Everything’s internal, invisible, so it’s harder for people to believe – sometimes I even doubt myself. Yes, perfect on the outside. No one can tell – least of all Jane, who
is not known for her perceptiveness – that everything inside me is perpetually tensed up, waiting for the next trigger: pushing open a door, standing up, turning my head too quickly, that seatbelt this morning. I’m forever bracing myself for the pain that’s sure to follow.

  ‘Are you free, Jane?’ My tone is brusque; small talk has always made me feel impatient. ‘I’d like to catch up as soon as possible.’

  She looks taken aback. ‘I have a meeting in ten minutes.’

  ‘When will you be done?’ God, it feels so good to be back in charge, to be my old self again.

  ‘I should be out by ten thirty.’

  ‘I’ll see you then. Bring the files you’re working on. Be ready to give me an update.’

  Your cushy existence is over, Jane. The late starts, the early marks, the continual sick days. I’m back, and I’m not putting up with that crap. You’re going to have to put in as much as the rest of us.

  I nod at my new assistant, Hannah. ‘I’d love a coffee. There’s a good place across the road. White skinny latte, thanks. I’ll be in my office.’

  Start as I mean to go on, that’s always been my motto. It’s important to establish authority from the beginning; it isn’t something you can go back and demand later on. Anyway, I’ve never believed in becoming best friends with the people who work for me. It’s a conflict of interest. I need to be tough, able to lay down the law, make the hard decisions. I’m sure Jane has revelled in telling Hannah all about me, how horrible and unreasonable I supposedly am. Hopefully, Hannah is mature enough to make up her own mind.

  My office. Full of memories of a stronger, indomitable me. The blinds are shut, and I tug on the drawstring, lifting them up to reveal the cityscape – blocks of concrete and glass separated by thin pillars of blue sky – a view I’ve always enjoyed. A cardigan that I assumed I had lost somewhere is draped over the back of my chair. My monitor has a thick film of dust on it and there’s an open packet of gum next to the keyboard. No framed photographs. I’ve never been overly sentimental.

  I’ll take it easy, pace myself, not go too hard (my mistake the last time I tried to return to work). Already, my head is filling with things – how to handle Jane, what work to assign Hannah, a review of all open projects – other than my pain levels. Dr White was right. This is exactly what I need: a shift of focus. This will help more than any medicine can.

  Hannah arrives with my coffee. My new assistant is medium height, medium weight, has nondescript, mid-brown hair and is plainly but neatly dressed. Her face has a harried look about it – as though there are a million things racing through her mind.

  ‘Did you transfer from another department?’

  She’s one of those women who blush easily. ‘No.’

  ‘I’d forgotten just how good this coffee is,’ I murmur, taking a moment to savour the taste. ‘Grab a pen and paper and we’ll get to work.’

  I take another sip of coffee, and a sense of deep contentment – of belonging – infuses every part of me.

  It is so fucking good to be back. This time will be different.

  7

  Hannah

  Sophie McCarthy. Sophie McCarthy, of all people. I couldn’t believe it when she walked up to us outside the kitchen. I recognized her straight away – she hasn’t changed that much – but she seemed to have no idea who I was. It must have shown on my face, how shocked I was, but her mind must have been elsewhere because she hardly gave me a second glance.

  Sophie’s return was announced at last week’s department meeting.

  ‘What position is she coming back to?’ Jane groaned.

  ‘The same position,’ Alyssa, our HR manager, replied. ‘Pricing Manager.’

  ‘So I’ll report to her?’

  ‘You did before, didn’t you?’

  Jane is one of four senior pricing actuaries in the Motor department. Maybe she felt that the department was functioning fine without Sophie. Maybe she thought that she was experienced enough to manage her own workload. It was clear that Alyssa, who started just before me, found Jane’s attitude perplexing. She gave her a quick frown before turning to me.

  ‘Hannah, you’ll be supporting Sophie as well as Peter. You’ll be with Sophie three days and Peter two.’

  Jane caught up with me after the meeting.

  ‘We don’t need Sophie McCarthy three days a week, or even one day a week. Nice that she’s feeling better and everything, but we got along just fine without her. Maybe she’d be of more use in another department? Another subsidiary? Another insurance company altogether?’

  I hadn’t seen this caustic side of Jane before. She had been nothing but friendly and helpful since I started.

  ‘Why don’t you like her?’

  ‘Because nothing I do is ever good enough for her … And she’s one of those managers who counts every minute you’re late.’

  Jane is one of the few women in our department who’s like me: a mum. Most of our female colleagues have put children on their to-do list, wanting to get ahead with their careers before starting a family (not that there’s anything wrong with that). I try not to let my kids interfere with my work but, even with the best intentions, I am sometimes – like Jane – late to the office and need to leave early.

  Of course, I never associated the Sophie McCarthy who Jane was moaning about with the Sophie McCarthy I knew from school. The name that was awarded dux – the highest-ranking pupil for academic achievement. The name that has stayed in my mind, even though everything else about high school is a far-distant memory now. The name that still, all these years later, makes me question and loathe myself.

  I get off the bus at my usual stop and hurry down the hill towards the apartment block that is now our home. Mum’s car is parked directly outside – parking is notoriously tight around here and she would have been pleased to snatch such a convenient spot.

  ‘Helloooo!’ I call out, opening the door to our two-bedroom unit and manoeuvring my way past the shin guards, football boots and one rather muddy soccer ball that have been abandoned in the minuscule hallway. ‘Who has left all this gear out for me to fall over?’

  No answer. I walk further into the apartment, and there they are, two heads of ruffled fair hair, dirty knees stretched out in front, mesmerized by whatever is on the TV.

  I position myself directly in their line of view.

  ‘Aw, Mum … we were watching that!’ they exclaim, in almost perfect unison.

  ‘Hello, boys. It’s your mother here … Just in from a hard day’s work and looking for a simple greeting. Hello, Mum would be lovely. A hug would be a bonus.’

  Finn, the more affectionate of the two, jumps up and loops me with his skinny arms. He smells of dirt and biscuits.

  ‘Hi, Mum. Sorry. We’re just watching a really good show.’

  Callum rises more slowly, his eyes still on the TV as he imparts a token hug, before cunningly steering me to a spot where I’m not blocking his view.

  ‘We’re not long home ourselves,’ Mum says, emerging from the balcony, her arms full of clean laundry. We’re not actually allowed to hang laundry out there – apparently it’s unsightly, and there are shared washing lines in the garden below which we’re meant to use – but no one has complained yet. I hate the thought of hanging our laundry in a communal place, where everyone can see it, and anyone can take it, for a laugh, or just because they can, but I suppose it’s one of the compromises that comes with apartment living.

  ‘How was training?’ I ask the boys.

  New home, new suburb, new school, new soccer team. It’s been a tumultuous six months.

  ‘The other kids were really friendly,’ Finn says, looking away from the TV to smile at me. ‘Some of them are in our year at school.’

  Despite being considerably smaller and skinnier, Finn has always been the more gregarious and confident of the twins. Callum is a darker personality, more introverted, harder to engage. He’s the one who’s feeling the change more keenly. Not that he’ll show it.

&n
bsp; Mum takes my arm and steers me towards the kitchen. ‘The coach mentioned that the boys’ registration fees haven’t been paid …’

  Rumbled. By the coach and by my mother. ‘I’ll pay them next week … when my salary comes in.’

  Yes, I can pay next week, but that means I won’t pay something else: the car insurance, or the electricity bill, or the school-camp fees. To be honest, I was hoping to get some leeway with the soccer fees, to stretch them out to my next pay cheque. No such luck, obviously.

  ‘Technically, the coach shouldn’t have allowed the boys to train. He said they aren’t insured, should they hurt themselves, or anything else. He was a nice man. Very good with the kids. He’s just following the club’s rules, that’s all. “No pay, no play,” he said.’

  ‘Flipping heck, Mum. It’s not as though they’re doing anything dangerous. They’re just kids, it’s just football, they shouldn’t need to be insured. The world’s going crazy.’

  ‘How much is it, Hannah?’ Mum asks, seeing straight through my bravado.

  I bite down on my lip. ‘Between the two of them, the best part of four hundred dollars.’

  ‘Good grief.’ She looks shocked. If it had been a smaller amount, she would have offered to pay. Four hundred dollars is out of her reach too.

  ‘Look, I’ll pay it next week,’ I say, even though I’m not sure I can. The electricity is already on a payment plan, and I’ve had three reminders about the school camp. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  It’ll be fine. I’m blue in the face from saying that phrase. It’ll be fine. It’s not fine. Not at all.

  Mum stays for dinner, as she often does. It’s a warm evening and we eat outside, spaghetti bolognese on our third-floor balcony. Our view is of other apartment blocks, separated from us by a major arterial road. The traffic never stops, roaring past at all hours of the day and night. Squealing brakes, revving engines, hooting horns. Despite the noise and the inevitable breeze, it’s nice out here. It can be stuffy in the apartment, particularly on warmer days. The boys shovel the spaghetti into their mouths, scraping their bowls clean. Their appetites seem to grow by the day. What’s for dinner, Mum? What’re we having for lunch? Can we have a snack? There’s nothing to eat, Mum. Sometimes I have nightmares that the fridge is empty and there really is nothing to eat, that the boys are hollow-eyed and starving, and I’ve failed to provide their most basic need.