Dear Vincent (19 page)

‘Fuck, Mum, you mean you’ve been depressed for all these years?’ I don’t know why I sound surprised. Who the hell would
not
be depressed with what she’s been through?

‘Watch your language,’ she snarls. Then stops. Takes a deep breath. ‘They say it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. Brendon took me to the clinic. I started treatment while you’ve been away.’

Jesus Christ!
‘Wow. Good for Brendon.’ I’m impressed. Maybe Max was right and it’s time she got a break.

We stand each side of Dad. Our words hang in the air like smoke after a battle. Both have cost lives.

‘I don’t want to go on like this.’ I’d cry except I’m too exhausted. ‘I know I haven’t helped. I’ve been selfish, I see that now.’ I edge towards her.

Mum shakes her head. ‘It’s not your fault. God knows, these past weeks without you or your dad have given me a lot of time to think.’ She fiddles with a corner of the blanket, fighting tears. I haven’t seen her cry since the night she got the phone call about Van. ‘It was that painting of yours that finally shook me out of it,’ she says.
The Medusa? Oh god
. ‘I recognised myself — and realised
if I didn’t do something to change things I’d lose you too.’

‘Oh, Mum. I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ She takes out a tissue and dabs her nose. ‘It forced me to get help. If I’m lucky maybe now I can rebuild some kind of life.’ She holds out her hand to me and I walk around the foot of the bed to take it.

When she pulls me to her of her own accord and holds me there, it nearly does me in.

‘You need a shower,’ she says, smiling through her tears as she releases me. ‘You smell like an old bogtrotter.’

‘Gee thanks.’

‘Use Dad’s one here.’ She points to the en suite door. ‘I’ll go and rustle up some tea and something for you to eat.’

I do as I’m told. Try to scrub away all seventeen years of ingrained resentment and rinse it down the drain. By the time I’m dry and dressed she’s back with Danish pastries and strong hot tea. I tell her about Vincent and the Eiffel Tower.

‘You were alone in Paris with a strange boy?’

‘Not strange. He’s the Professor’s grandson. And he’s very—’

But she’s away. ‘I suppose you’re sleeping with him?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. No, I’m not. And we were staying with his
mother
!’

‘Well,’ she says, backing down but still huffy. ‘I suppose I’ll have to take your word for that.’

‘I suppose you will.’

We find another comfy chair and wheel it into Dad’s room for me. Place it so we can hold one of his hands each side. He doesn’t breathe so much as rattle and the gaps between grow longer every time. Once or twice his
face screws up. Occasionally he groans.

Shortly before Mum’s shift she heads up to her ward. She’s going to brief a temp so she can stay with Dad. I’m left alone with him. I perch on the bed to stroke his brow. His skin is cool and parched.

For a long time I just watch him, until I’ve formulated my last goodbyes. ‘I love you, Dad. I think I understand what made you like you were. Thank you for looking after Mum.’
I wish you’d done the same for Van
. I want to say I forgive him but the words won’t come. Not yet. It’s still too raw. But understanding is a decent place to start. Max would be proud.

I place the photo Royan gave me on his chest and tuck the blanket over it. ‘Goodbye Daddy,’ I whisper, ‘you can go join Billy now.’ It’s only as I say this I realise that we’ve both lost siblings to suicide. There’s a lesson here, when I can figure it out. I kiss his forehead, then curl into my chair.

When Mum returns she’s carrying two hospital dinners. As we eat I tell her my impressions of Belfast and fill her in on family news. I don’t admit my lapse that night — she has enough to deal with.

She sounds surprised when I tell her how Shanaye and Royan are pissed off with the Church. ‘What I don’t get is why you and Dad stuck with it. Didn’t they make things worse?’

Mum’s silent for a moment and I see her inner struggle not to bite. ‘I know it seems all arse-about, but it was the only constant in our lives after we’d left. Paddy missed home so much and the Church was the one place he fitted in.’ She pats his hand. ‘You know that saying
Once a Catholic, always a Catholic?
’ I nod. ‘Well, in our
case I suppose it’s true. Like it or not, the Church is part of our identity. It’s why our daddies fought. But if I’m really honest I wish to god we’d not set foot inside their doors once we came here. I hate it all.’

‘You think there’ll ever be a lasting peace there?’

‘That’s up to your lot. My generation’s too screwed up.’

I try to frame my next question delicately, but my mind’s too tired so in the end I blurt it out. ‘Do you know what you’re going to do when Dad — goes?’

‘Get rid of that boggin’ house.’

‘I thought you couldn’t sell it?’

‘When your daddy dies I can pay off the bank.’

‘He has life insurance?’

‘Just enough. He made me promise to keep up with the premiums no matter what. It’ll wipe the mortgage. Then I can sell it for whatever some eejit’s willing to pay.’

‘Where will you live?’

When she finally answers, some of her old defensiveness creeps back in. ‘Brendon’s asked me to live with him.’ I’m still digesting this when she goes on. ‘He said you can come too.’

Wow. That
stings. ‘No, thanks.’ Come on, it’s not as if I actually want to live with Mum again. Maybe this is best for everyone.
It’s good. It really is.
‘So, you’re sure this Brendon’s a good guy?’

She splutters out a laugh. ‘He seems to love me despite everything.’ She blushes like a teenager. ‘I never thought I’d have another chance. I can’t afford to mess it up.’

I do the maths. She only turns forty this year. Still enough time. ‘I hope it works out, Mum. I really do.’

Between us, Dad releases a long slow sigh. I wait for him to draw another breath. Wait. And wait. Mum slips her fingers to the pulse-point at his throat. Closes her eyes.
One-a-b … two-a-b … three-a-b … four …
Her eyes reopen and she shakes her head. ‘He’s gone.’

She folds him in her arms. Cries like she’s freeing something that’s been rusted up inside. I lean across and stroke her hair, feeling strangely calm. I’m relieved for him. For her. For me.

When there’s nothing more I can do to help her, I head to Max’s and collapse into bed. I’d offered to go home with her but she was meeting Brendon. That’s still too weird. Instead, I lie awake and think about the past few years, how every moment of our lives revolved around Dad’s needs. It’s going to take some time to adjust to the fact he’s gone. And not just missing in action, really gone. No longer festering in the corner. No longer tracking my every move with resentful eyes. Gone like Van is gone.

What would he have been like if he’d been born here? Or if he’d loved Van for the girl she was instead of the embodiment of all his hate? Did he love me? I suppose he must have. Just had no skills to express it. The dream of doing up our rotten house was probably his attempt to put things right for all of us.

Eventually I succumb to jetlag and fall into a dreamless sleep. I wake at noon with a surprising sense of lightness, as if I’ve shed a leaden skin. Once I’m showered and dressed I drop in at the library to send a message to Johannes, though Paris now seems a fantasy. He’s already left a message, a one-liner written on the night I left:
There is nothing more truly artistic than to
love people.
It’s followed by a row of hearts. I laugh out loud. Since when did
he
start quoting Vincent?

Once I’ve told him about Dad I quickly do a search for quotes by that philosopher he talked about, Immanuel Kant. I can’t believe it. There’s one that could’ve been written by Vincent too.
Two things awe me most, the starry sky above me and the moral law within.
I cut and paste it, then end the message with a line of kisses. Tit for tat. I wish I could be there to see his smile.

FOR THE NEXT TWO
days, I seem to spend most of my time helping Mum plan Dad’s funeral. But even with our best efforts — preparing food ourselves, only one notice in the paper, choosing the cheapest coffin in town — my savings barely stretch.

I head to school and hunt down Ms Romano, desperate now to follow up her lead about next year.

‘Tara! I didn’t realise you were back.’ She’s studying me carefully, trying to read my face.

I tell her about Dad and once she’s given her condolences I get to the point. ‘About the scholarship—’

She raises a hand. ‘Stop right there! John’s contacted one of the university’s big art donors …’ She’s grinning like a loon. ‘Now he can’t guarantee it, but it looks as if he may be able to wangle you a grant to cover living costs. Then all you’ll have to do is bag Scholarship and you’re home and hosed.’

I haven’t cried since Dad died but now my eyes well up. ‘You really think it’s possible?’

Ms R wraps her arm around my shoulders. ‘I’d bet my reputation on it!’ She pats my arm. ‘Just don’t go forgetting your poor old art teacher when you’re raking in the dosh!’

On the day of Dad’s funeral I arrive at the chapel early and arrange a wreath of flowers on his coffin. There’ll be no church service; both Mum and I agree on this. Instead, the funeral director will say a few brief words and then I’ll do a reading, followed by something from Mum. We don’t expect a crowd and are surprised and pleased when some of Dad’s old mates and Mum’s colleagues turn up. And I’m gobsmacked when, at the last moment, Max rolls in.

I rush over to hug him. ‘How did you know?’

‘Johannes emailed me.’ He takes my hand and raises it to his lips. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. A very sad time for you, my dear.’

‘I have so much to tell you,’ I say, but ‘Danny Boy’ rings out and there’s no more time to speak. I help him into the chapel, then go to sit with Mum. Brendon’s up front too, on the other side of her. It doesn’t exactly make me happy but, after a heated conversation yesterday, I finally caved. I’m trying to be pleased for her. We may be building bridges but there’s still a way to go.

After the undertaker welcomes everyone and does a poor sketch of Dad’s past life, it’s time to do my reading. I move up to the microphone and clear my throat. ‘This was Dad’s favourite poem,’ I say. ‘He taught it to Van and me when we were small. It’s a fighting poem, an angry poem, a poem loved by a man who left his family and country to give us all a better life.’ I pause and close my eyes. Draw forth the words. ‘
Weary men, what reap
ye
…’ I recite it right through without a glitch. Am about to return to my seat when I meet Max’s eye.

I feel Mum watching too. Gulp down more air. ‘Today I’d also like to say goodbye to my big sister, Vanessa McClusky. She’ll be forever missed. May she rest in peace.’ I can’t say more. Max nods his head, as if to say
well done
. In the middle of all this emptiness, his approval fills me up.

I wait as Mum comes forward and grips the lectern. ‘Actually, our Tara’s right. It’s time to bid them both farewell. They’ll be forever in our hearts.’ It’s all she can manage. It’s enough.

When I’ve helped her back to her seat, I reach over and take her hand. ‘Thank you,’ I say. I catch her gaze and hold it. ‘I love you, Mum.’ She crushes my palm to her chest, too upset to speak. I can wait. If she can get the help she needs, I reckon maybe we’ll get through.

Outside after the service, Max wheels himself over to me, then reaches into his pocket. He holds out a sheet of paper. ‘I have a message from a rather lovesick boy!’ I take it from him. It’s a printout of an email with a colour photo at the message’s end.

I study the photograph more closely. It’s a half-finished box, the lid decorated in yellow and gold marquetry, each tiny petal-shaped sliver of wood building to form a sunflower. And right in the middle of its carved black head, he’s inlaid my name in glowing mother-of-pearl. I think I could well grow to love this boy.

I blink away tears to read the rest.
Wait for me. The moment I touch down I’ll be banging on your door. Jx

I feel Max’s satisfied gaze upon me. ‘He’s a real credit to you,’ I say, trying like hell not to blub. Not now. First I have to survive the rest of this. ‘I hope you don’t mind sharing him.’

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’ He scrabbles for my hand. Raises it to his lips and kisses my fingertips. ‘I feel truly blessed.’