Dear Vincent (11 page)

Tears sting. I gaze out past her to the sun porch and meet her cruel Medusa eyes. Why did I ever think this would work when venom pumps through her instead of blood?

Sandy starts to speak again but I no longer hear. I’m distracted by a movement just outside the door.
Johannes!
And it’s clear that he’s been listening. I stand up, ignoring Sandy’s shrill protestations and Mum’s accusing glare. I walk out the door and drop my head onto his chest. He folds his arms around my back and rocks me as I cry.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs in my ear. ‘I didn’t mean to pry, but I heard shouting …’

I shake my head. ‘Please,’ I say. ‘Just get me out of here.’

He leads me up the stairs and sits me in the matching window seat to the one below. He wraps one of his mother’s mohair throws around my shoulders. ‘Wait here. I’ll get rid of them.’ With that he’s gone.

I huddle in a patch of sun and close my eyes. Below, the voices ebb and flow. I’m exhausted, reeling from a battle I could never win. This is goodbye to Mum. Why keep wishing for some sign of love when she has none to give? I think of Brendon.
None for me.

Next thing I know, Johannes rouses me with a gentle shake. ‘Hey. I’ve made you a sandwich and a cup of tea. Then I’ll run you to work. It’s one thirty.’

‘When did they go?’

‘Almost straight away. Your mum had one more meltdown when she saw your paintings — though she was dumbstruck when she saw that one of her with all the snakes.’ A smile tweaks his lips. ‘It’s quite a scary likeness!’

‘She’s quite a scary mum.’

‘No shit.’ He prods a plate into my hand. ‘That lady Sandy said she’ll phone later. She looked like she needed a stiff drink.’

‘Poor Sandy. I should have known it would never work. Once, one of Van’s teachers asked Mum about the belt marks on Van’s legs. By the time Mum was finished with her, the poor woman fled in tears.’ I bite into the sandwich. Cheese, tomato, lettuce and a little mayonnaise — and just the right amount of salt. ‘Thanks. This is nice.’

‘Hey … I have a bit of money saved, if you, you know, if you’d like to borrow it — or have it — whatever … you can.’

I choke on a mouthful of bread and have to swallow several times to get it down. ‘Don’t be crazy! I mean, thanks, that’s a lovely offer, but the whole thing’s ridiculous. I don’t know why I ever thought that it might help.’

‘It
will
help,’ Johannes says. ‘Look, before I met my father, all I could do was think about him, fantasise about our relationship. But once I’d spent some time with him and faced the truth those urges went away.’

‘Nice try.’ I smile. ‘Apart from the fact that I’m not sure I totally believe your happy ending —’ Our eyes meet for a moment and his scud away.
Told you so
. ‘— even if I can get the time off school I still have work.’
Are you wimping out, Miss T? Crawling back into your little cell?

‘So? When did you last take a holiday?’

‘Never.’

‘See? I bet you’re owed one.’

This is pointless. ‘You don’t have to drive me to work. I can bike.’

‘I know. But I want to spend some time with Opa.’

‘Shouldn’t you be at lectures?’

‘So you’re my mother now?’ His dimples twitch.

IT’S JUST ON TWO
when we arrive at Twilight House. Johannes stops me before we go inside. ‘I’ll pick you up after your shift,’ he says, ‘since you don’t have your bike.’

‘No need. I can walk.’

‘It’s not safe.’

I mimic Max’s accent. ‘Vot, you think I can’t look after myself?’

He laughs. ‘That’s scarily like Opa!’ He scuffs his shoe on the asphalt, back and forth. ‘I thought I might cook you a late dinner. I’m getting pretty tired of eating on my own.’

I will not blush.
‘Okay. Thanks. That would be nice.’

Through the sliding doors he turns off towards Max’s room. ‘Wish me luck.’

‘What for?’

‘I’m going to talk to him about university.’

‘You mean about leaving?’

‘Yeah. After watching you stand up for yourself against your mum — well, it made me realise that if someone like you can assert yourself then so can I.’

‘Someone like me?’

He cringes. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I meant it as a
compliment. It’s clear you’ve had it really tough.’

I’m still processing this before I register he’s disappearing down the hall. ‘Hey, wait — good luck!’

He glances back over his shoulder and smiles, all lopsided and goofy. But there’s little chance to savour this: overnight Nadine’s been struck down by an infection. There’s talk that she might die. I look in to find May at Nadine’s bedside, stroking her and mumbling reassurances. The love between these two always gets me, but to see May face her sister’s death so stoically is especially moving.

‘I’m so sorry, May,’ I say. ‘This must be very hard.’

‘It’s a privilege to be with her right to the end,’ she replies. ‘When she was born our mother laid her in my lap — I was seven and she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. She was my living doll. Even when each of us was married we still spoke every day.’

I stay with her for as long as I can, witnessing the same kind of love that saw Theo stay with Vincent right through his fading hours. What was going through his head? Was he relieved the burden of supporting Vincent was at an end? Probably, though I’m sure his thoughts were more about the big brother who played with him and loved him so sincerely through all the ups and downs. Maybe he burned with anger at what he thought was Vincent’s final crazy act? Or in Vincent’s dying gasps did Theo hear his own fast-marching death approaching, much as May must now?

This makes me ache all the more for Van. It’s easy for Mum to say that I should leave Van resting in peace but the trouble is she’s not. She’s more alive inside my head these past few days than she has been for years. Even if I
wanted to, I doubt that I could shut her up. I never could.

Frustratingly, it’s not until I’ve worked through my evening list that I have time to sit with Max. ‘Good work,’ he says when he sees me.

‘For what?’

‘Our dear Johannes has such a good heart he always wants to please us at the expense of himself.’

‘So he talked to you about university?’

‘Indeed he did.’

‘And?’

‘Of course his choice is right. I’ve been waiting for him to speak up for quite some time.’

‘But if you knew he was unhappy, why didn’t you say something?’

‘He had to recognise what was in his own heart first — and find the courage to act on it.’

‘That’s a bit harsh. He loves you very much. He didn’t want to disappoint you.’

Max chuckles. ‘I’d have been a lot more disappointed if he wasted his life on something for my sake. But if I had told him this, before he had a chance to assert it for himself, would I have helped him? No. For this, I have you to thank.’

‘All I’ve done so far is disrupt his life.’

‘Exactly. I owe you much.’

Is he taking the piss?
His cool, clear eyes gaze back at me, unperturbed.

‘So what’s his plan then?’

He smiles. ‘He’s going to do some travelling — go see his mother first. We both agree a bit of perspective will be good.’

He’s going away?
‘When?’

‘The sooner the better really, since I’m already here. It frees him up.’

‘Great.’ The weight of the day suddenly presses down. I have to force myself to stand. ‘I’m really pleased.’

My disappointment propels me through the last of my chores and I finish with nearly fifteen minutes to spare. I make a cup of tea and take it through to May. Nadine’s breathing is so erratic now the doctor’s warned May there’s not long left.

There’s a beauty in Nadine’s dying, the skin sinking inwards to define the underlying structure of her bones. She’s like a building before the walls go on, a husk — yet full of promise as transformation nears.

I take my sketch pad from my backpack and start to draw her hands. They rest together on her chest, the long jointed fingers with their near-translucent drape of skin; the weave of veins and sinews; the many scars of Nadine’s well-lived life. When I’ve finished I give the sketch to May. It’s the first time all day I’ve seen her cry.

‘Bless you, dear,’ she says. ‘It will be like having part of her with me still.’

If only it was that easy.

I WALK OUT TO
the car park to meet Johannes with a heavy heart. I should be pleased for him, but after five years with no one to talk to I’d let hope slip back in. Bad move. Hope is God’s cruellest cosmic joke: just when you let it sneak in past the barriers, he goes out of his way to snatch it back. This is the one point on which Mum and I agree.

‘Good shift?’ he asks.

‘Not really. One of my favourite residents is dying.’ All the better if he thinks my melancholy is for Nadine.

‘I’m sorry.’ He starts the engine. ‘Did you see Opa?’

‘I did. He told me you’re going to head over to see your mum.’ I try to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. ‘That’s great! You must be really pleased.’

‘You’ve no idea. It was killing off my love of philosophy.
This
way I can do it at my own pace with Opa’s help.’

‘I’m sure he’ll love that too.’ I stare out at the houses,
the Little Match Girl again, spying on other lives through lit windows. ‘Where exactly is your mum?’

‘Paris.’ His grin’s so wide it threatens to swallow up his face.

‘Bummer,’ I drawl. His grin explodes into a laugh. It’s so contagious I find myself smiling too. ‘Do me a favour and go back to the Musée d’Orsay. Say hello to Vincent’s paintings for me.’

‘You bet. I’ll photograph them for you.’

‘Yeah right. Like they’d let you.’

‘No shit! When we were there everyone was doing it. Mum and Opa spent bloody hours photographing their amazing furniture section.’

I’m sure he doesn’t mean to rub my nose in it, but all the same it stinks. I redirect the conversation back to Nadine, trying to disguise my jealousy.

Back at the house I excuse myself to freshen up before we eat. In fact, I need to give myself a good pep talk. I mustn’t destroy Johannes’ happiness, even if I’m a ball of nerves and disappointment.

There’s a bitter waft of burnt sugar as Johannes ushers me through the door and over to the dining table. A sunflower floats at its centre in a crystal bowl, the light from a single candle bouncing off the facets to dance around the shadowed room. The cutlery is real silver, the knives bone-handled, and the serviettes are heavy linen, delicately embossed.

‘Wow. It’s beautiful. Sunflowers are my favourite.’

I catch a glimpse of
his
nerves as he scans my face. ‘It’s to make up for my cooking!’ he says. ‘I tried to cook you an authentic Austrian dinner but I incinerated the strudel.’

He looks so disappointed I have to laugh. ‘It’s okay. I don’t much like puddings anyhow.’

I prop myself against the kitchen bench while he fries Wiener schnitzel, real veal coated with crispy golden breadcrumbs.

‘So, have you been anywhere else besides Vienna and Paris?’

‘London, briefly. And we went up to a tiny Austrian village near the border with Italy. There were farmers cutting grass with scythes, loading horse-drawn carts. Bizarre!’

‘Like one of Vincent’s paintings?’

‘Yeah. Exactly. It doesn’t feel real.’

‘Does Max being Austrian mean you could stay if you wanted to?’

‘Not sure. But to be honest, even if I could I probably wouldn’t.’

‘Are you crazy? Why not?’

‘It’s a weird place. Everyone is so controlled and orderly. There’s even a right and wrong side of the footpath to walk on — it’s all so claustrophobic. It made me want to do something outrageous! I like it better here.’

‘Outrageous? Like what?’

He flips a piece of schnitzel over as he contemplates this, a wicked grin tweaking the corners of his mouth. ‘Oh, I don’t know … maybe ripping off my clothes and streaking through the city centre in broad daylight!’

I’m imagining this in pulse-raising detail when out of nowhere he says: ‘Fish burgers with chips.’

‘What?’

‘Fish burgers. Can you picture them?’ I nod. ‘Smell them in your mind?’

‘What on earth is this about?’

‘Diversion,’ he says.

‘Pardon?’

He mimes running in slow motion, his hands over his private parts. Now he stops mid-stride. ‘Oh no. I’ve made you picture me again!’ His grin swallows me up.

I slap him on the arm as heat roars up my face. ‘Shut up!’

He laughs, busying himself with lifting the rest of the meat out of the pan while I sweep up imaginary crumbs with my big toe. No doubt about it, in my head he looks damn good naked.

I help him serve the schnitzel, accompanied by a salad and baked potatoes topped with sour cream. When we take it through to the table, I can’t help myself. I dive right in.

‘It’s the best meal I’ve had for weeks,’ I say, as I finally lay down my knife and fork.

‘Good to hear. So, now that you’ve got me sorted, what about yourself?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ireland. You should definitely go.’

‘I’m not sure I can.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t know my rellies there — and I’m guessing they wouldn’t be too pleased to see me.’

‘Have you ever tried to contact them?’

I shake my head. ‘What’s the point?’ Who am I kidding? I don’t have the guts.

He scrapes his chair over until it’s right beside me and picks up my hand. It has the most peculiar effect on my insides. ‘Nietzsche said that pain is an inevitable
step on the way to reaching anything good.’ He runs his index finger around the scab that’s formed on my palm. ‘If you don’t at least speak to them, how will you know if they can help or not?’

I stare down at our hands. There’s a streak of brown paint on my wrist that I missed when I washed up.
Why haven’t I contacted Royan?

‘I’m scared.’

‘Why?’

I’m there, reflected in his eyes, all tense and wild-haired. ‘Truthfully? I’m walking a tightrope and I’m on the verge of falling off.’

‘You’re much too strong to fall,’ Johannes says. ‘Besides, I won’t let you.’

‘But you won’t be here.’

‘I’m here now.’ He squeezes my fingers, then lets them go. ‘Come on. Let’s find their number on the internet. Do you remember the address?’

‘No.’ He’s looking at me so expectantly I’m caught.
This is crazy.
‘It’s on the letter I found. I have it downstairs.’

‘Then get it!’ he says. ‘I’ll fire up my computer.’

He’s already heading for his room.
Oh shit. Oh bloody hell.
I run downstairs to fetch the letter from my suitcase. Sure enough, Royan’s address is written at the top of the first page.

Upstairs, Johannes is already at his desk. He searches out the White Pages for Belfast and enters Uncle Royan’s details. The number pops up on the screen, simple as that.

‘It’ll be morning there. Why not ring now?’

‘But it’ll cost—’

‘No biggie. Mum and Opa call Europe all the time. They have a special deal.’ His eyes gleam with excitement.

My stomach roils. ‘He’ll probably be at work.’

Johannes cocks his head and studies me. ‘Tara, come on. What’s the worst that can happen?’

I fall to bits in front of you yet again. And find still more reasons to hate my life.
It’s hard to breathe. ‘Okay. But if this turns to shit I’m blaming you.’

He pats my head.
Tara, the performing poodle.
‘Atta, girl.’ He picks up the phone and dials, waiting for it to connect before he passes it to me.

‘Hello?’

Oh god. Oh bloody Jesus Christ.
‘Is that Aunt Shanaye?’

‘Yes. Who’s that?’

I pull a face at Johannes. ‘It’s Tara McClusky here. Kathleen and Paddy’s girl.’

There’s a long heart-stopping silence. ‘Tara? Dear god! Has something happened to your ma or da?’

‘Yes.’ I hear her gasp. ‘I mean, no, that’s not why I’m calling. Dad had another turn but he’s still alive.’ Johannes watches me so intently I cross my eyes and frown. He grins.

‘Poor man. And your mammy, darlin’? Is she well?’ I have to tune my ear in to decode her broad accent. Mum and Dad’s must’ve blunted over the years.

‘Fine,’ I say. This is so bizarre. ‘How are you and Uncle Royan?’

‘Can’t complain, lovey. What about you?’

I try to swallow past the lump that’s swelling in my throat. My voice comes out as if I’m six. ‘I’ve only just discovered how Van died. Mum kept it from me.’

I’m sure I hear her groan. ‘Oh darlin’, that must’ve
been a terrible shock. She was a lovely girl, our Van. We go and tend her stone whenever we can.’

Our Van.
They cared for her. They really did.

Everything wells up inside. My shoulders start to shudder and Johannes presses his hand onto my arm to steady me. I gulp in a painful breath. ‘I miss her.’ I get it out before the wave of sobbing hits.

‘Of course you do, you poor wee lass. Of course you do.’ Above my own pathetic carry-on I hear her sniff as well.

‘Ask her if you can go and stay,’ Johannes mouths.

I turn my back on him so I can concentrate. ‘Did she have a funeral?’

‘It was tricky, darlin’. Our priest, may God forgive him, refuses to do services for those who take their lives. We could have fought it, but in the end we decided it would be better to give her a good send-off here at home.’

‘You had her there?’

‘Of course. There was no way I’d see that poor wee soul stuck somewhere on her own. Our little ones painted flowers on the casket and we put your drawings in with her — she was so proud of you, Tara. She was always telling us that one day you’d make it big.’

I slap my hand over my mouth. Van lay inside a coffin lined with my crappy drawings — as if they could make up, somehow, for my absence.

‘Tara? Are you still there, love?’

‘Mm-hmm.’ I dig my fingernails into my thigh. Press hard enough to centre my pain. ‘Do you think … if, maybe, one day, I was to come …’

‘You’d be welcome as the morning, pet. You’re family. We’ve not much but what we’ve got is yours as well.’

‘Thank you.’ I need to end this now. I feel totally done in. ‘I’d better go.’

‘Give our best to your ma and da. And call us any time, you hear?’

‘I will.’

I hang up but continue to stare at the phone. Why would Van kill herself when she was in the midst of such obvious love? It makes no sense.

‘Well?’ Johannes says.

‘It was my Aunt Shanaye. She sounded nice.’

‘Can you stay?’

‘Uh-huh.’ I stand, unsteady on my feet. ‘Thanks for dinner. It was great.’

He springs up too. ‘So what’re you going to do now?

You can’t just leave it like this.’

‘I need some time to think.’

‘We could check out airfares. I need to book mine any—’

‘No!’ I back away. I’m struggling to breathe. I need air, space. ‘This isn’t just some self-indulgent holiday because I don’t know what to do.’ My words flail him but I can’t seem to stop. ‘This is the real world — and it’s shit, just like Mum said, and it’s going to stay shit till the end. Grow up.’

I run downstairs and lock myself inside. Then climb in the shower and let the water pelt me while I howl.
They put my drawings in her coffin. Laid her out in their front room.
Claimed by strangers. It’s all so wrong.

I don’t climb out of the shower until my tears are spent. But now I’m mortified by what I said to Johannes. Am I turning into Mum, the kind of person who takes all that’s good and crushes it?

I pick up the phone and scroll through Max’s speed-dial numbers. The very last entry is ‘Upstairs’.
Thank god.
I dial through.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. I was just in shock.’

‘No, listen,
I’m
sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you. Anyway, you’re right. I
am
being self-indulgent.’

‘No, you’re not. I’m just jealous. You’re definitely making the right call.’

‘Could you write a note to that effect for Mum?’ I can hear the smile in his voice.

‘Sure.’ There’s a moment’s awkward silence, so I blunder on. ‘Dinner was lovely. Really. Thanks.’

‘I’m sorry about the strudel.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t help with the dishes.’

‘There were dishes?’

Now it’s my turn to smile, though it’s cut short by a yawn. ‘Okay. I’d better go.’

‘Dinner tomorrow? Now I’m a self-indulgent loafer, I need a goal.’

My heart kerplunks. ‘Yeah, thanks.’

I’m just about to hang up the phone when Johannes speaks again. ‘Hey Tara …’

‘What?’

‘Fish burgers, remember?’ He chortles and hangs up.

NEXT MORNING I’M WOKEN
early by insistent rapping on the sun-porch door. I drag on my dressing gown
and stumble out, hoping it’s Johannes.

It’s Mum.

My feet itch to run. But there’s a chance she could be here with news of Dad. Bad news. Guilt’s foremost in my mind as I unlock the door.

‘What’s happened?’

She’s still in her uniform and she looks like hell: the circles underneath her eyes so black and deep they could be carved. ‘Can I come in?’

I hold open the door and stand aside. She doesn’t go straight through to the lounge, instead hovers in the sun porch, staring at my work. An invisible hand squeezes my guts. She points to the Medusa portrait and clears her throat. My heart speeds up.