The Golden Child Read online

  ‘Oh, no.’ Her mother smiles uneasily. ‘I’m sure it won’t be anything like that. She’ll probably just look like she’s sleeping, but . . . she’ll have tubes attached, and, well . . .’ Her mother sits up straight, clears her throat. ‘Darling, I’m finding it terrifying enough, going to see her. There’s Andi and Steve too, they might be . . . emotional. So I’m just not sure that it’s something you need to experience.’

  Charlotte remembers her father’s comments. ‘But don’t you think I should? It would be the right thing to do, wouldn’t it?’ She plays her trump card: ‘Wouldn’t her mum and dad really like it if I came? Wouldn’t it be really good for Sophie to have a friend visit? I mean, who knows – maybe she can actually hear . . . Isn’t that what they say when people are in a coma? That you should talk to them because they might be able to hear you?’

  She can sense her mother’s unwillingness, but there’s really nothing she can argue with. Her mother takes a sip of tea, shakes her head, surrenders with a sigh. ‘I guess you’re right, darling. It is the right thing to do. I was going to go this morning, but we can call in this afternoon after school.’ She pauses, surveys Charlotte for a long moment. ‘You really are a good girl, Charlotte. So thoughtful. I’m afraid I underestimated you.’ The smile she gives is full of pride.

  Charlotte swallows her triumph, her excitement. Produces a sad smile. ‘I know it’s not going to be good, but if it was me, I’d like to think my friends were visiting even if I couldn’t actually see them. I’d like to think they cared. Maybe we could take something for her – maybe we can call in and buy her a cupcake, even if she can’t eat it.’

  Then, as it occurs to her: ‘Do you think Sophie will have lost weight? She’s probably not all that fat anymore is she?’

  ANDI

  IT IS MAGICAL THINKING, SUPERSTITIOUS NONSENSE, illogical – Andi knows all that, but at first she doesn’t care. Surely if she can concentrate hard enough on Sophie getting better, regaining consciousness; if she can channel her wishes and her love and, right now, her prayers in a steady stream towards her daughter, surely she’ll recover. Surely the sheer immensity of Andi’s love will force her daughter back to life.

  But eventually it exhausts her: the endless hovering, the eternal watching of the monitors, noting every change, every slight movement – the flicker of an eyelid, the dilation of a nostril, the slightest motion of her lips, all the tiny jerky reflexive movements. She can’t bear the sudden surge of hope, the crashing disappointment, a thousand times a day. She can’t handle her own desperate attempts to read the faces of the nurses and doctors, though she has come to understand their inscrutability, their blankness. They are not cold, as she first thought, but considerate. Sophie’s prognosis is still not entirely certain, and the staff know that they are being watched for signs, for clues. They don’t want to give Andi the wrong ones, unwittingly.

  She begins to look for distractions, for ways of forcing herself to look away, even if just for a moment. The initial police visits provided some sort of relief, and their questions, though painful, gave her the opportunity to think about another Sophie. Unlike the medical staff, whose concerns are only with the here and now, what the police needed was a picture of the living Sophie, not this silent mannequin-child. But their official visits were done with quickly, once they established that there was no parental negligence to investigate. That it isn’t a matter for the law, but something for doctors and – God willing – psychologists to deal with. The police are still a constant presence, but they’re visitors now, Steve’s colleagues, and their sympathy and concern only reinforce the horror of her current reality.

  But out in the real, the living world, there are distractions – countless things that need doing. For one thing, Gus needs proper maternal attention. She tries to keep him out of Sophie’s room as much as she can, something she’s tried to hide from Steve, half convinced now that her relationship with Gus played a part in Sophie’s unhappiness. The poor baby has spent most of the last few days in exile at the hospital crèche, and though he seems content enough (cleaned, cuddled, entertained), Andi knows that some sort of maternal focus is absent. Even during the brief moments when she goes to the nursery to feed him, Andi isn’t really there, she doesn’t really connect with him in the way she should, in the way she ordinarily would. Something essential is missing in her response to him, and she worries that this will have an effect on him later.

  So, on the fifth day of that first terrible week, torn, but knowing it is necessary, she makes herself go home for the entire afternoon, taking Gus with her. She spends some time just talking and playing, doing a fine impersonation of a normal happy mother. She croons, sings, dandles him, plays peek-a-boo – all the things she would normally do. She takes him out in the pram, walks up and down the hilly streets, pushes him through the city and along the foreshore, avoiding her usual route. She doesn’t want to see anyone she knows, anyone who is likely to ask in hushed and uncertain tones after Sophie, to see their concerned expressions – desperate not to judge, but so patently glad not to be in her place.

  Back from her walk, Gus soundly sleeping in his cot, there are calls that need to be made, easier somehow here than from the hospital, people who need to be kept up to date: family, friends, the school. She has had to beg her mother not to come up. Even though she would have appreciated her help with Gus, she couldn’t bear to see her own grief mirrored in her mother’s face. Couldn’t bear her probing, either. Steve’s father is too old to visit, but he phones three or four times every day. Both she and Steve find it difficult to listen to his consolations – Whatever happens is for a purpose. This is God’s will – words spoken through tears, his old man’s voice light and brittle, but still full of conviction. There have been cards, flowers, but their only visitors, other than Steve’s police friends, have been Beth and Charlotte. Though there can be no real relief, Beth’s warmth and concern were a balm; their company provided some sort of reassurance that things would eventually return to normal.

  Before she makes the calls, she plays the messages on the home phone. There are dozens of them – so many people offering assistance, love, prayers, food – and she is barely conscious after a while of who they are and what they are saying. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the outpouring of sympathy, the support – it’s that her brain doesn’t seem able to process, or even really acknowledge, their sometimes very obvious distress. So puny compared to her own. But then, the last message of all, a little bit different, makes her listen.

  ‘Andi. Steve.’ There is a long pause as if the caller is thinking about disconnecting, or perhaps just waiting for someone to pick up.

  ‘I hope . . . We all hope . . . We can’t think how terrible a time this is for you right now.’ She is used to the tentative nature of the calls, the quavering voices, the inability to speak coherently, but from the outset this message seems more stilted, more uncomfortable, than any of the others. In fact the woman sounds terrified. If she’d answered, Andi knows it would have been hard to resist the urge to soothe the speaker, calm her down, reassure her, regardless of the actual news.

  ‘And I don’t want to . . . none of us wants to make anything worse or to make things . . . any harder. But . . .’ The voice is unfamiliar.

  ‘If you could . . . look, if you could ring me back. There’s something you should know. The girls have been telling me. I’d rather not leave a message. About what happened to Sophie. If you could ring me. Please. Any time. Sorry.’ The woman leaves two numbers, a home phone and a mobile, but forgets to say who she is. Andi replays the message, but there are no clues. No names. Andi assumes she is one of the class mums. Other than a few exceptions, they are something of an amorphous mass, even though she’s probably met most of them at various school dos. She tries to put the voice to a face, but it is hopeless – she can’t even recall most of the girls in Sophie’s class right now, let alone their mothers. The message had come through the night before, late, past nine, if the ma
chine’s clock is accurate. Andi really doesn’t want to call her back. There are others whose claims are greater, whose calls she really should return first, but there is something in this woman’s voice, a strange urgency, as if she needs, rather than wants, to talk to her.

  Andi dials the house number. If there is a machine she won’t leave a message. She prays for a machine: her heart is racing; she doesn’t know if she can speak; she can barely breathe. But the call is picked up almost immediately.

  ‘Anna McLachlan.’ Although there is nothing tentative in the greeting – it is brisk, businesslike – it is clearly the voice from the message. Anna McLachlan. It doesn’t ring any bells.

  ‘Mrs McLachlan.’ Her own voice is low, devoid of intonation. ‘This is Andi Pennington. You left a message on my machine. Asking me to call.’

  ‘Andi. Oh, God.’ The woman’s tone changes in an instant. ‘Oh, God. I’m just so— We’re all so sorry. If there’s anything I—’

  ‘Look. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m not sure who this is, I mean who you are. It’s all such a—’

  ‘Oh, God. Please don’t apologise. I understand. You must be . . . You probably don’t actually know me as Anna McLachlan – it’s my work name. My daughter, Bridie, Bridgette Stevenson, she’s in Sophie’s class. We’ve met a few times, at band camp and concerts, but I don’t really do much school stuff.’ Then, oddly defensive, ‘I work full-time.’

  Andi remembers Bridie well enough – she plays piano too – but she can’t remember ever meeting her mum, let alone speaking to her.

  ‘Oh, right. Look, I’m just home from the hospital to shower and change. I need to get—’

  ‘There’s been no change?’ The woman’s words sound as if they’ve been reluctantly dredged up, as if she is dreading the reply.

  ‘No. She’s still the same.’

  ‘But she’s stable?’

  ‘Her heart’s still beating, if that’s what you mean.’ She knows it is cruel, but doesn’t care, already resenting having to speak to this virtual stranger.

  ‘Look, I’m so sorry to bother you at this time.’ The woman sounds embarrassed rather than hurt. ‘And I won’t keep you. But what I want to say . . . it’s difficult, and I don’t know if I should. But I’ve spoken to some of the other girls’ parents. And my husband. He’s a lawyer – well, actually we’re both lawyers, but he knows a bit more about this sort of thing.’

  ‘Mrs McLachlan. Anna.’ She doesn’t bother to mask her growing anger at the woman’s rambling. ‘Can you just tell me whatever it is you need to tell me? I really can’t handle any more suspense.’

  She hears the woman take a deep breath, as if to calm herself – or give herself the necessary momentum.

  ‘It’s about what Sophie . . . did. About everything that happened.’

  ‘What do you mean? We already know what happened.’ The story they’ve told everybody but a select few is that Sophie accidentally took some of her father’s sleeping pills, mistaking them for headache tablets. It isn’t a perfect story, far from it, but Andi is shocked that anyone, especially a virtual stranger, would dare to openly contradict it. Surely it is their right to keep their daughter’s actions private?

  ‘I know you don’t want to make a big thing of it, and I understand why. But the girls . . . as you can imagine, they’re all extremely upset. And there’s been talk. Lots of it. About why she did it. About what’s been going on at school.’

  ‘At school? But we thought . . . Sophie hadn’t said anything. We thought it was just . . . a combination of things. Nothing in particular.’

  ‘Well, from what Bridie has told me, and her best friend, Matilda – do you know Matilda Matherson? Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. What’s important is what’s been happening to your daughter.’

  ‘What’s been happening?’

  ‘According to the girls, Sophie has been bullied. Very badly bullied.’

  ‘Bullied? I don’t understand. Who by?’

  ‘It’s been a few of them – a particular gang, apparently. Bridie and Matilda – they don’t belong to that group – they’re not allowed in apparently. Not that they care. But Sophie, she was being systematically bullied. At school. And online. On one of those social media sites they’re all mad about. From what the girls say it was horrendous – almost torture.’

  ‘And who are the girls in this group? Who was doing it?’

  There is a long pause.

  ‘Look, this is really hard, because I know . . . I know you’re friends.’

  ‘Friends? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Your family and the Mahonys.’ The woman pauses again. ‘I’m talking about Charlotte Mahony. There were some other girls involved: Harriet George, Amelia Carrington, Grace Doherty, but apparently Charlotte’s the main . . . perpetrator. The girls told me that she’s done some dreadful things to your daughter. They’re pretty sure it was Charlotte who set up that hideous website.’

  ‘Website? What website?’

  ‘You didn’t know about it?’

  ‘Oh my God. No. What sort of website?’

  ‘It was . . . about Sophie. There were photos. And a film clip.’

  ‘A film clip? I don’t understand. Of what?’

  ‘Of Sophie.’ She can hear the woman take a deep breath. ‘She was undressing, apparently.’

  ‘Undressing? In front of a camera? Sophie?’ It’s unimaginable. Beyond Andi’s comprehension, and way beyond her understanding of her daughter. ‘My God. What . . . Did you see it?’

  ‘No. I didn’t. The website’s gone. The girls seem to think the site was taken down as soon as she . . . when Sophie . . . But apparently someone got a screenshot. One of the other girls in the class. So there’s evidence.’

  ‘A screenshot?’ Andi is having trouble understanding what the woman is telling her, what it all means. ‘And what were the other things? You said they’d done other terrible things?’

  ‘Oh,’ the woman sounds flustered suddenly, ‘I really don’t know. Other than the online stuff. I’m not sure about the details. I imagine it was just the . . . the usual girl stuff.’

  ‘Of course. The usual girl stuff.’ Andi feels weak and suddenly sick, wondering what exactly counts as usual in this situation. Just the usual torture. She imagines the unbearable sadness and loneliness that Sophie must have felt, suffering all this in silence.

  ‘But that’s not all.’ The woman is obviously warming up to something else, something bigger.

  ‘What else?’ The words have to be forced out.

  She speaks in a rush. ‘Apparently Charlotte told her to do it. On the website. She more or less told her to kill herself.’

  Andi can’t speak. She is reeling with the hugeness of it – it doesn’t, can’t, won’t sink in. She feels hot and then cold and then hot again, but the woman hasn’t finished with her, not yet.

  ‘And that’s not the worst of it.’

  ‘Not the worst of it?’ Andi almost laughs. But wait, there’s more – let me drive these steak knives straight through your heart.

  ‘No. Apparently . . .’ The woman’s voice drops to a whisper, as if she is in danger of being overheard. ‘Apparently, it’s not the first time. I don’t have any details, but apparently Charlotte’s done something like this before.’

  DizzyLizzy.com

  There’s No Place Like Home

  I was chuffed to be invited to write a guest post for the fabulous TrailingWife.com about the ten things I most miss about life in New Jersey. Not only an exciting moment in my blogging career, but an easy task, I hear you say.

  But to be honest, I’m having trouble. Real trouble. You see, every time I come up with one thing I miss, a whole series of related memories springs up, hydra-like, and my list never gets made. For instance, whenever I think about my favourite NJ food market, I remember how long it took me to get used to shopping there. For so long the grocery stores in the US seemed foreign: the food was in the wrong aisles, all the packaging was unfamiliar, I cou
ld never get a handle on the names of things. Or the weights. Now I feel almost as alien in the local Woolworths – I could be lost in an Arab souk. I miss the paper sacks and having my groceries carried out to the car. I miss the extreme politeness of the staff and being called ma’am. I miss certain brands of tinned food, packaged food, the particular mayonnaise we always had on tunafish sandwiches. Oh God, I miss the tunafish sandwiches, and who says tunafish here?

  The missing is endless in a way I hadn’t imagined it would be. And it’s painful. It had never occurred to me that all these seemingly inconsequential domestic things would seem so important. I had assumed that being back where the places and people are familiar would make up for it. The trouble is, I guess, that they aren’t nearly as familiar as I’d hoped . . .

  And that’s just the first one. I’ve got another nine to go ☹

  41

  EXPATTERINGS:

  @BlueSue says:

  I hope it passes, Lizzy, but there are no guarantees. When we were away I always felt that I could never be my real self. I always hoped that once I got home I’d feel normal and happy again. But it wasn’t to be – we’d stayed away so long I ended up feeling like a foreigner in my own country.

  @OzMumInTokyo says:

  Oh, yes! It’s all those little things. I remember when we arrived here from Sweden. I thought I wouldn’t miss any of it, but I look back fondly on so many things now: the endless summer nights, the houses, the people, the schnapps, even the cold . . . Maybe it’s a case of grass is always greener? Or rose-coloured glasses?

  @TrailingWife says:

  Really looking forward to your post, Lizzy. Hope you find those other nine things!

  @DizzyLizzy replied:

  Almost done & dusted ☺

  @ShelaghO’D replied:

  When will the post go up @TrailingWife?

  @TrailingWife replied:

  Scheduled for first Monday of next month. And hey – I’d love one from you, too. Shoot me an email [email protected]