The Golden Child Read online

  @AnchoreDownInAlaska says:

  I’m sooo looking forward to missing things about Alaska. If I’m missing them, I won’t be here. LOL.

  @TrueBelieverMom says:

  If you accept our Lord Jesus into your heart you will always be at home. May God bless you and all your family.

  @GirlFromIpanema replied:

  Wherever you lay your hat, eh, @truebeliever? LOL

  BETH

  ‘MUM.’ IT IS IMMEDIATELY APPARENT FROM THAT ONE syllable – voiced with such breathless portentousness – that Lucy has something important to tell her.

  Beth is sitting up in bed with her laptop, working on her post for TrailingWife.com and doesn’t want to stop. It is past ten and she had imagined both girls to be asleep long ago; she checked on them before getting into bed herself, and though she physically tucked Charlotte in, kissing her forehead and smoothing back her hair, she hadn’t entered Lucy’s room, reluctant to disturb her light-sleeping daughter. Instead, she stood in the doorway and watched the slow rise and fall of Lucy’s chest, assumed she was asleep. Beth guards her hour or two alone in the evenings jealously, especially on the nights that Dan is away, insisting that both girls are in bed at eight-thirty, with lights off by nine. All her non-work days are spent on the house – finishing the painting, choosing fixtures, negotiating with tradesmen. Nights are the only time she has to spend on her blog.

  Later, it will seem remarkable, almost bizarre, that her writing – in such an ephemeral here-one-minute-gone-the-next medium, unpaid and unacknowledged in the ‘real’ world, and practically a secret activity at that – should ever have occupied such a great deal of her time and her consciousness. Later, she will wonder whether her focus on the blog – begun as a way of satisfying her desire for something beyond her family, beyond the girls – meant that she missed certain signs. Perhaps if she hadn’t been so preoccupied, with her work for Drew in addition to her online life, she’d have been aware of what was going on with Charlotte – or at least noticed certain things that in retrospect were there to be noticed.

  But this particular night, she welcomes the opportunity to focus on the small stuff, to have her mind elsewhere, to not have to think about Sophie, about the uncertainty, about Andi and Steve’s pain. The blogpost is trivial, but it is a welcome distraction.

  ‘Mum?’ Lucy’s voice is insistent and Beth looks up at her elder daughter, who is hovering anxiously by the door. ‘Can I come in and talk to you for a moment? It’s really important.’ She speaks quietly, looking behind her as if worried that she’ll be overheard.

  Beth sighs and closes her laptop, gesturing for her to come in. ‘Why aren’t you asleep, Lucy? It’s so late. Oh, come on. Come over here.’ She pats the side of the bed, and Lucy sits down beside her, frowning, clearly upset. ‘What’s up?’

  Lucy bites her lip, rubs her hand across her eyes.

  ‘Darling? What’s wrong? Is there something going on at school?’

  Lucy looks towards the door then whispers, her head bent, not meeting her mother’s gaze. ‘It’s not me. It’s . . .’

  She speaks so quietly that Beth has to move closer. ‘I can’t hear you. Lucy?’

  ‘It’s about Sophie.’ Her daughter’s eyes are shiny with tears, her bottom lip quivers.

  ‘Oh, sweetie. Luce.’ Her own eyes fill in response. She pulls her daughter towards her, hugs her fiercely. ‘Oh God. I know it’s terrifying, but I hadn’t thought how scary it must be for you. But at the moment Sophie’s stable and the prognosis is—’

  Lucy interrupts. ‘No.’ Her voice is fierce. ‘No.’ She pushes away from her mother. ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘What is it then, Lucy? What’s wrong?’

  Lucy takes a deep breath. ‘It’s just . . .’ She pauses, swallows. Begins again. ‘It’s what they’re saying at school, what the girls are saying about why she did it.’

  ‘Why she did it? You mean . . .’

  ‘Why Sophie took those pills.’

  ‘They just don’t know, darling. Honestly. Nobody really has any idea. They’re sure it wasn’t deliberate, though.’ It is a necessary lie, but still Beth feels guilty. She tries to speak with conviction. ‘Most likely it was an accident. Sophie had a big exam coming up and then the eisteddfod, and Andi thinks she might have been having trouble sleeping. She often did. Does. She might have just wanted a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘But that’s the thing, Mum.’ Lucy is holding Beth’s arm so hard that it hurts, her thin fingers strong, pushing into her wrist. ‘Nobody at school thinks that. They all know what really happened.’

  ‘What do they know? What’s the real reason, then?’

  ‘It was . . .’ Lucy looks towards the door again. Lowers her voice. ‘They were bullying her. Charlie and her friends. Her gang.’

  ‘Charlie’s gang? What do you mean? Charlotte hasn’t been here long enough to have any sort of gang. I thought she was still sorting that out, playing with different girls every day.’

  Lucy rolls her eyes. ‘Mum. Charlie always has a gang. And eventually she’s always the leader. It’s just the same here as it was at Brookdale. When she says you’re in, you’re in. And when she says you’re out, you’re out.’

  Beth feels her chest tighten. ‘But isn’t Sophie in her gang? Isn’t she one of her friends? She was here just a few days before . . . before it happened. They looked to me as if they were getting on fine.’

  Although, looking back, perhaps that last visit hadn’t been a great success. From what she can remember, Sophie spent most of her time in front of the television with Lucy, while Charlotte did something in her room. Sophie had insisted, uncharacteristically, on a speedy exit when Andi arrived to collect her. The women barely had time to exchange two words.

  ‘They don’t hang out at school at all. I don’t think that Sophie really has any friends. Anyway, it’s different at school: what happens at home doesn’t count.’

  ‘So . . . what are they saying about Charlotte?’

  Lucy’s eyes dart across to the doorway again. ‘They’re saying that she’s been bullying Sophie. That it was pretty bad. And they’re also saying that she was bullying her online. That it was meant to be anonymous, but that they all know it was Charlotte. On ASKfm.’

  ‘ASKfm? Is that some sort of radio station?’

  ‘No, it’s an online site. But that’s not the only thing.’ Lucy takes a deep breath.

  Oh, Jesus. ‘What else?’

  ‘There was this website. A website that was just about Sophie. Someone sent links to practically the whole school. And they’re saying it was Charlotte. That Charlotte set up the whole thing.’

  ‘Set it up?’

  ‘The website. It’s got pictures of her. And a video. Of Sophie undressing. She’s practically in the nude.’

  ‘Of Sophie? But why?’

  Beth takes hold of Lucy’s shoulders, feeling suddenly sick.

  ‘Why would anyone do that, Lucy? Why in God’s name would Charlotte do that?’ Then, as if it’s only just occurred to her: ‘Where is it? Where is this site? Show me.’ She feels nauseous at the thought, but she needs to see it. She grabs her laptop, pushes it over to Lucy.

  Lucy recoils, pushing it back towards her mother.

  ‘I can’t find it, Mum. I’ve already tried Googling. It must’ve been a closed site or something. And it’s probably been taken down now.’

  ‘Well then, how do we know that—’

  Lucy interrupts. ‘But, the thing is . . . it’s actually worse than that, Mum.’

  She has barely been able to take in what Lucy has told her, and now asks numbly,

  ‘How can it be any worse?’

  ‘They’re saying that Charlotte actually told her to do it – on the website . . .’

  ‘Told her to do what, Lucy?’

  The child collapses into her arms, her face distorted with grief and fear.

  ‘That Charlotte told Sophie to kill herself.’

  Beth calms Lucy down, reassuring her,
despite her own screeching panic, that it will all be okay, that she is sure that the whole thing is nothing but the nastiest rumours. She wipes her daughter’s face with a warm flannel, the old remedy for distress, then takes her back up to bed and sits beside her, stroking her hair, until she sleeps.

  Back downstairs, Beth paces the quiet house furiously, unable to settle. She wonders what she should do, what she can do. What she needs to do is find that site. To see it with her own eyes. And then to destroy it, and all the evidence that it ever existed. Should she wake Charlotte now, ask her, accuse her, interrogate her?

  Should she ring Dan and tell him? But Dan will be asleep, or will still be out wining and dining, and there seems little point in worrying him with this right now. She thinks about ringing Susie, but she’s so busy with her own life; Beth has made overtures since her return, but her sister has made it clear that she doesn’t need or want any increased sibling intimacy. Could she call her mother? Margie? Unthinkable. She thinks about making a transatlantic call, the time would be right, but her NJ friends seem distant in every way. And what would she tell them? She wants, oh, what she really wants is to talk to Andi. To have it all cleared up before Andi hears the rumours, before the rot sets in. To reassure her that there is no way Charlotte could have done this thing, that it’s all a misunderstanding, that it’s nothing more than vicious rumours. And Andi, Beth is almost certain, will take her word for it, will know instinctively that she is telling the truth.

  She could call Drew, he would be good to confide in, but it’s too late at night. Anyway, what could he say? She imagines that he’d tell her she has nothing to worry about. That even if Charlotte has been unkind to Sophie, she is only a twelve-year-old girl, a child herself, that what’s happened can’t really be her fault. She can’t be blamed. He would tell her to pour herself a drink, a strong one, and think about something else. He would tell her she should try to relax, get back to her blog, go to sleep. He would tell her to do something, anything, to take her mind off it.

  Beth takes Drew’s imaginary advice, pours herself a whisky and goes back to her laptop, opens her article. She has uploaded a photo to go with her post, a picture of the four of them standing outside the house in West Bloomfield after a heavy snowfall. They’d built a snowman, their first for the season, with a carrot nose and prunes for eyes, a glittery plastic cowboy hat from the girls’ stock of dress-ups, and a terrible magenta scarf made of squeaky nylon that Margie had knitted one of them the Christmas before and that no one would wear. The girls have both grown a little since the snap was taken, but otherwise have hardly changed at all. The picture had been taken with the camera on a timer, and with all the accompanying hilarity. Their faces were glowing with happiness; Beth’s own shows a contentment she knows was heartfelt and not just some trick of the camera or nostalgia. It is sad to contemplate, but she has barely experienced such uncomplicated joy since their move. It hasn’t been unhappy exactly, but there’s been far more stress, far more worry, than she’d expected. And they have had to make such an effort, all of them, to find a place for themselves, to fit in.

  And now this.

  She types furiously, adding Snow to her list of ‘Things I miss about our life in the US’.

  Right now Beth would be happy, more than happy, to go back. But she knows that it is not just the place itself that she is missing. It is the time, really, the time before now. A time when she’d known how each day would unfurl, when she’d known the contours of her own life. She’d understood her husband properly, and her children’s hearts were not hidden things, but as recognisable, fathomable, familiar as her own. It might have been an illusion – maybe the seeds of all this had already been planted there and then. Perhaps all that time she had been unwittingly nurturing the monster of fate that confronted them now.

  Just for a moment, she is tempted to tell her loyal readers what is going on. She can imagine their baffled responses, all of them expecting her familiar take on her experiences, her slightly blurry but definitely upbeat view of the world, and not some god-awful revelation.

  She almost laughs, imagining @AnchoreDownInAlaska’s cheerful response: Oh, I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding, Lizzy! LOL

  @GirlFromIpanema’s sharp take: There’ll be something dark and dirty going on in that family, that’s for sure.

  And @OzMumInTokyo’s compassion: Oh, Lizzy. I can’t say how bad this makes me feel for you. You know it’ll all get better. You know your baby didn’t do anything wrong. Sending you hugs. Xox

  And most predictable of all, @BlueSue’s inevitable Job’s comfort: What did you think, Lizzy? That life was meant to be easy? That raising children was going to be a cinch? Life is shit, motherhood is the pits, all children are a disappointment. What made you think yours would be any different?

  She goes back to her list. She prefers the rosy glow of her manufactured life to what is beginning to look like a very grim reality.

  And she doesn’t want to disappoint her readers.

  WWW.GOLDENCHILD.COM

  THE GOLDEN CHILD’S TEN LESSONS FOR SUCCESS

  LESSON SEVEN: HOW TO KEEP YOUR PARENTS HAPPY

  Remember the time when you pushed that kid too hard on the swing, and she landed on her butt and went wahhhhing to the mothers, and told them that you did it deliberately? And the other mother said to her little crybaby, ‘I’m sure it wasn’t on purpose, darling.’ And then your mother looked at you and said sternly, ‘Now, sweetheart – say sorry,’ without even bothering to ask you what actually happened. And so you said sorry, and the two of you kissed and made up and went back to your games. Confusing much?

  It gets even more confusing when you go home and your mother says, ‘Mummy knows you didn’t do that deliberately, darling. It was an accident, wasn’t it?’ And you know she really doesn’t want you to tell her that it wasn’t an accident, even if it’s the truth. So you go, ‘Yes, of course it was an accident, Mummy.’

  And Mummy believes you. And eventually maybe even you believe you.

  All parents WANT to believe their children are good. Regardless of what’s right before their eyes.

  And you should let them believe it. That way everybody’s happy.

  COMMENTS

  @RANDOMREADER says:

  So, Goldie, was she pushed or did she fall?

  ANDI

  ANDI GOES TO THE VISITORS’ ROOM, EMPTY AT THIS EARLY hour, to make the call. She doesn’t want Sophie – she doesn’t want anyone – to hear. She can only get the first few numbers punched in before her fingers begin to shake uncontrollably. She disconnects. Tries again. And again. As soon as the dial tone kicks in she feels her stomach churn, bile rising to her throat. She has written down, word for word, line by line, breath by breath, what she wants to say, what needs to be said. She even had Steve read over it. He said nothing, but he gave a brief nod before turning his attention back to Sophie, and to whatever else was going on in his head.

  She last heard from Beth the evening before, a text sending love and asking how things were going, but Andi hasn’t replied, and there has been no other message. She wonders now whether Beth has discovered her daughter’s part in all this. Impossible to know what she might be thinking, doing. What she might be feeling.

  She thinks back to that hospital visit. Steve had just gone home for a shower and a shave when they arrived. He’d left unwillingly, fearing that something, the unthinkable something, would happen in his absence. She’d had to force him from the room, recognising her own terror in his eyes, but knowing that other things – his personal hygiene, specifically – needed attention.

  Andi was feeding Gus when the nurse, a young Irish woman with red hair, an incomprehensible accent and an irritatingly cheery manner, delivered Beth and Charlotte to the room. She poked her head around the door to announce the visitors, then left them standing awkwardly on the threshold. From the vantage point of her seat behind the embankment of monitors, Andi was able to observe the two of them unseen. Charlotte was as up
right as always, but clutched her mother’s hand as if she were a much younger child, her eyes wide, her mouth open, as she took in her surroundings. But she regained control of herself almost immediately, breathing deeply, pulling her hand from her mother’s, stepping away. Even now, Andi is astounded by the child’s monumental self-possession. How certain she was, so clearly ready for anything. Beth was another matter – obviously distressed, openly afraid. She observed her friend’s stricken expression as she gazed at Sophie, wired and pale and barely alive, the way she forced herself to pull her eyes away, scan the room.

  ‘Oh, Andi.’ Beth’s voice was thick. Andi could tell she was close to tears. Beth slumped against the door frame as if unable to move, her offering of flowers hanging limply, water dripping onto the floor. She breathed out on a sob, and the tears came. ‘Oh, Andi. It’s so terrible. I can’t . . . I don’t . . . Oh, poor Sophie.’

  Seeing them was not as hard as Andi had expected. She had thought she would not be able to bear it, that she would be overwhelmed with envy, that she would have no way of communicating anymore with citizens from the world of the well and whole. Instead she was filled with sudden tenderness, hope. The mother and daughter – her friends – were living proof of her own former existence, a reminder of the ordinary good of the world. She pulled herself out of the chair, still nursing, and moved unhesitatingly towards them.

  ‘Oh, God. Beth.’ She embraced Beth and then Charlotte as well as she could, her own voice breaking, eyes filling. ‘I’m so glad to see you both.’

  The visit was brief – they stayed only twenty minutes or so – but proved to be oddly uplifting. After their emotional greeting Beth went straight to Sophie and sat by the bed, her gaze intent. She took her hand, stroked her hair, while Andi gave her the latest prognosis: the most recent MRI showed no signs of brain damage, and there was no permanent damage to her organs. Though the doctors expected her to regain consciousness, they didn’t know when. There were no guarantees. Andi, of course, had consulted Doctor Google: there were cases, too many of them, where coma patients never regained consciousness, despite the doctors’ expectations, despite all the signs indicating that they should.