Dear Vincent (7 page)

‘I think that’s where he’d say the mind and body interact — he talks about this sort of stuff when he explains the concept of the soul.’

I shake my head and groan. ‘I haven’t had enough sleep to take this in!’

‘Ask Opa. He’ll explain it better than me.’

‘Are you taking philosophy because of him?’

‘I guess. We’ve always lived upstairs from him. He talked me through this stuff until I understood. Now I can’t shake it off.’

‘You’d want to?’

‘Not the ideas, no. But I’m frustrated as all hell at uni. It’s not really my thing.’

‘What does your dad do? Is he an academic too?’

He frowns at the road ahead. ‘I don’t really see him.’ His voice is tight now. ‘Do you always ask so many questions?’

As usual I’ve overstepped the mark. I’m too intense — no wonder I have no friends. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’ We drive the rest of the way in silence, both leaping from the car the moment we pull up. I wait outside while he goes in to fetch the Professor. I wish I hadn’t come.

Except that the Professor seems pleased to see me. ‘Tara, my dear! I’m glad this grandson of mine convinced you to join us!’

‘Thanks for inviting me.’ I gesture from his wheelchair to the car. ‘Do you want me to help you in?’

‘I’ll do it,’ Johannes says, angling himself so I have to move. ‘I do it all the time.’

I watch him pick his grandfather up with expert
care and place him in the seat. It’s dawning on me that Johannes and his mother must do all the caregiving for the Professor back at home. They’d have to lift him out of bed. Help him shower. Maybe even haul him on and off the loo. We’re not so different, Johannes and I. Except for the fact he clearly cares for the Professor out of love.

We head towards the coast, the Professor filling Johannes in on all his visitors’ news. I don’t join in. They parry back and forth, sharing philosophy jokes that sail across the surface of my brain without sinking in. I pick at a dry patch of skin on my thumb, trying to get a hold of myself. One tiny push is all I’d need right now to fall to bits. I feel it welling up.

We’re halfway around the waterfront when the Professor exclaims: ‘Johannes, look!’ He points to a crowd of people milling around a temporary ice-skating rink in one of the parks. ‘Why don’t you and Tara work up an appetite before lunch?’ He glances back at me. ‘I was a whizz when I was young. I taught him all my best moves.’

Johannes finds a car park and the three of us make our way over to the rink where the better skaters are gliding past the learners, who flail around like newborn giraffes.

‘I’ve never tried,’ I say.

‘Then you must have a go,’ the Professor says. ‘You’ve no idea how magical it feels to master it.’ He pulls out his wallet and hands Johannes his card. ‘My treat.’

Johannes inclines his head towards me, watchful. ‘Is this okay with you?’

It’s impossible to refuse. ‘All right — but I’m totally uncoordinated.’

He laughs. ‘That’ll make two of us!’

While the Professor settles down to watch, I follow Johannes over to the makeshift office and swap my shoes for skates. He has his on before I’ve even laced mine up and stands waiting, his hand outstretched, as I attempt to rise. It’s like trying to balance on a knife edge, my ankles seemingly devoid of bone.

I pull a silly face to cover my embarrassment. ‘Is it too late to back out now?’

‘Absolutely!’ He nods towards his grandfather. ‘Rule Number One in Opa’s world: what Opa wants he usually gets.’

I grin. ‘Okay, got that. What else should I know?’

‘Just to keep an eye on him. He thinks he’s irresistible to pretty girls!’

Is that a compliment? He’s shuffling on his skates and doesn’t meet my eye.
Say something. Move along.
‘So …’ I gesture towards the rink. ‘Shall we?’

He helps me onto the ice and I focus on staying upright as he shows me how to move my feet. By way of explanation he pushes off and glides out into the middle of the rink before circling back to where I stand. Not exactly elegant, his long arms and legs a little splayed and his backside sticking out, but he doesn’t fall.

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘If that’s your idea of unco, can I go home now?’

‘No. Come on.’ He offers both his hands, arms braced to hold me firm. ‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘I haven’t killed anyone yet!’

His hands are warm, his fingers bony as they encircle mine. He tows me forwards while his feet weave in and out to give him backwards momentum. I will my
ankles to hold firm as we start a tentative circuit of the rink, and I’m concentrating so hard I nearly jump into his arms when some little smartarse hurtles past at alarming speed.

‘Watch where you going!’ Johannes snarls at the kid.

‘Sorry. I said I was crap,’ I say.

He watches the other skaters for a moment, then his face lights up. ‘Hey, I know. What if you imagine the skates are filled with paint and the ice is a blank canvas! Every time you move your feet you’re building up a picture — the goal is to get the paint as smooth and even as you can.’ He smiles at me, clearly pleased with his analogy.

I close my eyes to visualise what he’s described and see at once where I’ve been going wrong, pressing all my weight into the ice when what I need to do is brush across the surface in fluid strokes. Think myself weightless. I take a deep breath, as if I am about to start a painting, and actually manage to propel myself forwards under my own steam.

‘That’s great!’ He drops one of my hands and sweeps around beside me so we’re skating hand in hand. ‘Just trust your body to find its balance on its own.’

From the sidelines the Professor clasps his hands triumphantly above his head as I wobble past. ‘Put your arm around her waist,’ he calls to Johannes. ‘Give the small of her back a little more support.’

‘Would that help?’ His cheekbones flush pink and his embarrassment is contagious.

‘Sure.’ I say it like it doesn’t matter one way or the other, but when he wraps his arm around I feel every point at which our bodies touch.

‘Now speed it up a little. Move your feet in time with mine.’

I try to block out all the other manic skaters and match his pace — and for a moment we are totally in sync. Then …
whomp!
I’m crashing down, Johannes’ gangling limbs caught up in mine.

‘Oh god, I’m so sorry!’ I try to scrabble up, nearly neutering him with my knee in the process.

He rights himself then helps me up. ‘Are you all right?’

‘So long as I don’t ever have to sit again.’ My legs are shaky now and all the confidence I’d gained has leaked away.

‘Enough?’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’ I let him tow me from the ice and help to pull my skates off.

The Professor’s chuffed that I managed to stay on my feet, even if it was only for a matter of minutes. ‘You’re a natural, Tara. Not like my grandson here.’ He grins at Johannes and shakes his head sorrowfully. ‘All speed no style, my boy. And to think of the hours I spent on you.’

Johannes isn’t bothered. ‘Gets the job done,’ he says, as we reach the car and he helps the Professor back into his seat. ‘Maybe next time we can practise turning, huh?’ His eyes briefly meet mine before he ducks his head and fiddles with the keys.

We drive further around the coast until Johannes parks near a small café in a classic half-moon bay. A waitress leads us to a table overlooking the promenade that separates the road from the sea. Now that there’s nothing to do but make polite conversation I’m fumbling again — they’re so at ease with each other I feel like piggy in the middle. Thank god, the waitress soon
returns to take our order and the meals quickly follow. Then I think of something. ‘Professor—’

He holds up a hand. ‘Please call me Max. I’m happy to say that my teaching days are over.’

‘Thanks. So, Johannes said he saw some Van Goghs in Paris. Did you go to the Musée d’Orsay?’

Max nods. ‘Indeed. You know they have a whole room dedicated to Vincent there? Well over a dozen of his works.’

‘If I was there I think I’d die of happiness.’ I feel my cheeks heat as Johannes’ gaze nets mine. ‘Which ones stick most in your mind?’

Max closes his eyes and I can almost hear his brain ticking over. ‘It’s hard — when you’re in a gallery so overflowing with priceless treats you’re like a castaway offered a feast. You don’t know where to start — and each dish is a satisfying meal all on its own. After a while, it all becomes too much. The ideal would be to visit every day for one whole week.’

‘My favourite was the couple sleeping in the field,’ Johannes says. ‘I wanted to jump in and lie down next to them, it looked so warm and peaceful.’

‘That has to be
The Siesta
,’ I say. At least here I’m on familiar ground. My gaze drifts outside to the people strolling the promenade as I summon up the painting in my head. ‘Amazingly, he painted it in the asylum in Saint-Rémy; it’s a knock-off of Millet’s
Four Moments in a Day.
’ I know
I
sound pretentious now but I can’t stop — it’s not often I have a chance to talk like this. ‘I love that he’s only really used two colours, but with all their subtle variations. Soft dove blues, all the delicate shades of violet, the yellows and oranges of—’

Jesus. Is that Mum?
There, out on the promenade. Her hand held by an unknown man. I press my nose against the window. Hear the blood swish through my ears. My god! It is. She’s smiling, and … bloody hell, they’re kissing. Not just any kiss. It’s lingering. A lovers’ kiss.

The swish transforms into a roar. ‘I have to go!’ Max looks alarmed. ‘Sorry. Thank you. I—’ I flee the table, dodging around customers, and burst out the door. Charge across the road, nearly into the path of a tooting car. Mum and the man are past me now, their figures melded as he wraps his arm around her shoulders to pull her close.
Hypocrite! Liar!
My head is going to burst.

I chase them down, reach, then overtake them, swinging around to meet them head-on. Mum startles and shrugs away his arm. As I fight to catch my breath, I watch her blush an ugly puce.

‘What the hell is
this?
’ Pure Irish fishwife.
The real Miss T
. ‘You should be at the hospital. With Dad.’ I can’t help myself. I reach forward and give the man a good sharp shove. ‘And who the fuck are you? She’s married, you know? Her husband’s dying while you—’

Mum backhands me across my mouth. ‘Enough!’ The man is hissing in her ear. He’s plain and grey, with the flush of a big drinker.

‘Thou shalt not commit adultery, Mum. Remember? You’re such a bloody hypocrite — everything you’ve lived is one big lie.’

I can see her rallying now. The gritty flint is back in her eyes. ‘What would you know? You ran off and deserted your daddy, not me. You couldn’t even care for him without making him worse. You—’

I fling my hands over my ears.
How can she say this? I’ve given my entire life
. ‘Shut up! Shut up! It’s
you
who betrayed the trust.’

‘For the love of God, Tara, we’re in a public place. You’re making a total eejit of yourself.’

‘Oh, like you’re not, Mum?’

She hisses through gritted teeth. ‘Stop it, do you hear? You’re acting crazy.’

‘Yeah? Crazy like Van? You drove
her
so crazy from a lack of love she killed herself.’

The colour drains from her face as she grabs me and starts to shake me — hard. ‘You know nothing, d’you hear? Nothing. You think you can judge me? You’ve no idea.’ Her fingers are drilling holes into my arms, my head jerking so out of control I’m scared she’ll snap my neck. And still she yells, though now I’ve lost all sense of what she’s saying.

People run towards us. I try to fight her off, but Mum’s too fierce. All I can do is open my mouth. I scream to the rhythm of her rock and roll.

That’s when the man steps in. He yanks Mum’s arms away, the sudden release dizzying me. The pavement rises up. Then someone hooks their hands under my arms and hauls me back to my feet.

‘Come on, Tara. Come away.’ Johannes takes a firm grip of my arm and frogmarches me back over the road to the car. He pushes me into the back seat and climbs in next to me.

‘Bloody hell, what was
that?
’

Mum and the man are scurrying back the way they came. He’s getting a piece of her tongue now as well. ‘Family shit,’ I say. I have a desperate need to cry, but
gulp it back. There’s not enough air in here. Not enough in the entire world.

‘Do you want me to take you home?’

I can’t bear the way he’s staring at me. I shield my eyes. ‘No, I’ll walk. It’s not your business. I need to be alone.’ I scrabble for the door handle.

‘It’s miles.’ The door clicks open and I slither out. He’s up and out the other side, glaring at me across the silver roof. ‘Come on. You haven’t even finished your lunch.’

‘Tell Max I’m sorry — and thanks. I’ll see him tomorrow at work.’ I have to get away. That toxic soup has chosen now to roil up.

I turn back at the corner and he’s still standing by the open car door. I can’t think about him now; I just need to get round the bend.
Thank god.
I stagger to the gutter and throw up.

IT TAKES ME
A
while to find a bus stop but I eventually catch the right bus. I sit staring out the window, the scene with Mum replaying in my head. It’s clear by the way they kissed it wasn’t a one-off. How long has she been skanking around with him — me thinking she was working when, instead, she’s …
God!
And stupid me at home, playing the good girl with my drooling da.

It’s such a joke, considering her attacks on Van. My sister sought comfort in the arms of random boys, hoping to replace the lack of love at home. I get it — and if Mum had a gram of decency and shame she would’ve seen it too. Instead, her accusations and name-calling drove Van further down that road. What Mum didn’t
notice were the nights Van curled up with me in the wee small hours. Then her bravado cracked.
Boys only want one thing, Miss T. Give it to them and they’ll take and take — and then they’ll shake you off without a second thought
. She’d cry, her whole body convulsing inside the circle of my arms. I didn’t have the guts to ask what she meant, scared her dirty secret sins would taint me too. I wish to god I hadn’t been so obsessed with saving my own butt. Hateful, hateful, hateful. Lies, lies. lies.

I can’t stop shaking. The worst part is I always thought my parents worked in tandem, bound by such an all-consuming love it excluded Van and me. I never heard them fight, and blocked my ears to all the other sounds that breached their bedroom walls. Shit, the fact they were united helped me bear the pain. If they had the capacity to love each other, then one day love for us could still blossom — then together we could cross the Alps and come out saved. What a crock. Those von Trapps have a lot to answer for.

I get off the bus outside the supermarket. Roshane’s on check-out and the opportunity’s too good to miss. I load a basket full of basics — bread, milk, cheese, toilet paper, a few cheap frozen meals, toothpaste, shampoo, bits and bobs. Now I’ve established my cover, I eye up the wine. Not that I like it much — hell, I’ve hardly ever drunk a thing — but the urge to drown the shrieking in my head is too powerful. Besides, I’m sick to death of being the one who smiles and does what she’s told. Screw that.

When there’s no one waiting in Roshane’s aisle, I saunter up. I unpack my basket and staunchly meet her surprised eyes. She glances around to check she’s
unobserved, then slides the three bottles of wine through without scanning the barcode and bags them straight away.

‘I’ll pay,’ I say.

She rolls her eyes. ‘Like hell you will. Do you really want me to ask for your ID?’ She shrugs. ‘Tell you what, bring one round tomorrow night — Mum and Dad are going out. Call it a trade!’

She’s watching me intently: it’s damn near the first time in years
anyone
has asked me round. Amazing what a little illegal alcohol can do. ‘Yeah, sounds fair.’ I grin and pay the rest.

She writes her address on the side of the receipt and winks. ‘Seven thirty then?’

‘I work till eight thirty.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘Okay.’ I gather up the bags and have to stop myself from running out the door. I never knew it was so easy to break the law.
Just walk slowly, kid
, Van whispers in my ear.
The key is to look confident, like nothing’s wrong.

I walk the four blocks to Max’s house, praying Johannes won’t be there. He’s not. I stash the groceries out of sight, then take a bottle of the wine into the bathroom and lock the door. With any luck, he’ll think I’m out.

The first slug makes me shudder. There’s a sharpness to it; a kind of vinegary aftertaste.
Toss it back, girl.
I sit cross-legged beside the toilet bowl and slowly work through half the bottle. There’s no effect, then all at once I’m crying, hunched and bitter as I swig more down.
My parents are The Thought Police
… One paying for his
sins in Purgatory, the other breaking several of the Ten Commandments while she quotes the Pope. I feel so sick I have to close my eyes and concentrate to hold it back. Bad move. The axis of the planet shifts.

I shake myself.
Need to do something
. I creep out to rescue my sketch pad from the porch. Back in the bathroom, I start to draw — compelled to get the sight of Mum’s deceitful kiss out of my head. I sketch their mouths locked like two suckerfish, exaggerating all the lines until they look like one of those sick cartoons the Nazis used against the Jews. There’s buzzing static in my head, as if the radio’s off-station, voices surging in and out …
you know nothing … deserted Daddy … woe betide … they’ll shake you off without a second thought
… I fling my hands over my ears but all this does is trap the voices. Vincent, Van and Mum are playing Chinese whispers in my head.

Page after page fills with my drawings, furious evictions of the poison building inside. At some point there’s a rapping on the sun-porch door. I don’t respond. Instead I curl into a tiny ball to make myself invisible. Eventually I drift into a woozy doze.

WHEN I WAKE FROM
the fog, my mouth’s so dry I have to sluice it out. I cup my hand under the tap and lean over to slurp the water.
My god!
A thousand clumsy elephants are stomping on my head.

Meanwhile, dusk’s stealing all the colour from the world. The crisp white tiles have greyed and lost their
sheen, and shadows cloak everything else. I don’t know how to face this night. Even hearing about Van’s death for the first time was nothing in comparison to this. Then, I thought I’d only lost a sister through random bad luck.
Only?
Now I’ve lost the whole shebang. I don’t know what the hell is real or what to think.

I pick up the screw cap from the floor, press the sharp end into my wrist and twist. Work it down. I groan with relief as real, normal pain replaces the screaming in my head. I graunch it back and forth until the skin catches and splits. Small beads of black-red blood well up. I start again. Etch another perfect circlet of my brimming blood. It’s strangely calming, observing the creation of this Aboriginal dot painting. Each little
blood-ring
represents my sorry life. Where I’ve come from.
Purgatory
. Where I’m heading.
The fires of Hell.

The room’s a cell. I’m short of breath. I grab the remaining wine, sculling more to dull my stinging arm, and head outdoors in search of air. The night is still and clear, the sounds of other people’s evenings clinking through the dark. I find a corner of the garden fringed with rhododendron flowers so white they glow, and lie back on the spongy grass. Above me Vincent’s stars pulse with such energy I try to catch it with my hands.

His voice chimes in my head:
Everything is miserable, dilapidated … I’m overwhelmed by forebodings … There is no help.
He’s right. There’s no point in going on. No point in trying to fix this broken life. I have no heart for it. Can’t see the—

‘Jesus, Tara. What the hell are you doing?’ Johannes stands over me, his face in shadow. Disgust hardens his voice.

I try to prop myself onto one elbow but am swept by dizziness and drop back to the grass. ‘Go’way.’

He squats down next to me and takes the bottle from my hand. He pours the dregs onto the lawn. ‘How much have you had?’

Had?
I’ve been had by everyone I ever loved.
Who’s next?
I start to laugh and it keeps bubbling up and up. An ugly sound. Hysterical. Wine sloshes in my belly and begins to rise.

I roll onto my side just as it overflows — the sickly sweet-and-sour stench causing me to retch again. And again. Not laughing now, crying. I try to crawl away. My arms and legs refuse to work. When I collapse back on the ground, my hair wipes up the mess. ‘Gedaway,’ I scream at him. ‘Leave me alone.’

I know he’s talking but I can’t hear what he says above my own wailing. He grasps me by the arm and tries to haul me to my feet. My body’s weighted down by triple gravity, refusing to cooperate even when it’s clear he won’t give up. Now he slips his hands under my arms, draws me up until my back is pressed against his chest. He knots his arms under my ribs and starts to drag me back towards the house.

‘Walk, bugger you.’

I try. I tell my legs to move one at a time but it’s no good. ‘Sorry, sho sorry.’ And still I cry.

Somehow he tows me back indoors, lugs me to the bathroom and props me in the shower stall. He turns the mixer on and I squawk as freezing water pelts my throbbing head. He warms it slowly till it’s tepid, standing with me in the stall. Now he shampoos my hair, apologising when I mewl. He tips my chin and smears
his hand across my face to rinse away the suds. I sneak a look up at him, my focus blurry, and see a wet avenging angel who’s majorly pissed off.

He turns off the water and wrings my hair. I’m standing under my own steam, but only just.

‘Can you get your clothes off?’

‘What?’

He steps outside the shower stall and brandishes a towel, turning his head away. ‘Take off your clothes, then dry yourself.’ He’s dripping on the floor, his hair capping his skull.

I attempt to balance on one leg to peel off my soaking jeans but there’s a total disconnect between my brain and limbs. I stumble back against the wall and knock my head. ‘I can’t.’ I sound pathetic.

‘You’re kidding me?’

I’m clearly not.

‘Okay. Oh Jesus. I promise I won’t look.’ He pulls the bunched-up roll of denim over my foot, then strips the other leg. Next my cardigan and tee shirt, until I’m shivering in bra and pants.

Now he throws the towel around my shoulders and starts to rub me down. The fabric’s soft, its movement teasing up the thick absorbent pile. When I was small Van was responsible for giving me my nightly bath. There’s such a comfort in this act that when he reaches round to dry my neck, I press my lips to his. I’ve never kissed a boy before; am surprised by the softness. The pliability. His lips start swelling to meet mine but then it’s over. Just like that. He pulls away, unsmiling, as he resumes his task.
Stupid
. I hold out my hands for the towel.

Just as he’s passing it he grunts. Snatching up my
arm, he peers at it. His rubbing’s made me bleed again. Shock snarls his face.

‘Are you crazy?’ His eyes burn into mine. I look away. ‘Did you do this to yourself?’ He clamps the towel around my wrist to stem the blood.

My head throbs too much to think up an excuse. ‘It helped.’

‘You’re bloody kidding me.’ He rummages inside the bathroom cabinet and brings out a first-aid kit. He starts to bandage my arm.

I stand compliant, praying he’s too revolted by my pathetic act to notice how my nipples show through the thin fabric of my bra. I lean in over his bowed head and sniff its crown.
Hot dirt after unexpected rain.
Kiss-curls hug the edges of his skull. My whole insides reach out for him, willing him to notice that I’m here, alone, a heartbeat from his arms. He could have me. Here. Right now.

Instead, he tucks the bandage in, then turns his back. ‘Go climb into bed. I’ll dry off, then bring you in a cup of tea.’ He speaks slowly, like I’m a naughty child.

I look down at myself and it’s no wonder he finds me so repulsive: my legs too thin, my stomach hollow between jutting bones. No one’s ever wanted me.
No one ever will.
I wrap the towel around my head and weave my way into the bedroom to slip off my damp underwear. Stand swaying in the middle of the room, trying to muster up the will to pull on pyjamas. It’s all too hard. Instead I burrow into bed, too tired now to even cry. I close my eyes and try to banish the dirty, brazen, whorey need. I’m so ashamed.

When he returns I pretend to sleep. I can’t face the
accusation in his eyes — or the tea. My stomach has been scoured out. I enter a half-world of restless dreams. I’m the Little Match Girl from Van’s story nights, staring in at scenes I cannot hope to reach. Dad and Mum, locked in each other’s arms, yet when I step in close she’s not with Dad at all. Instead, it’s the Pope — his hands all over her as she recites Hail Marys into his silvery white hair. Now I’m at the rest home, pacing hallways with Nadine. I’ve been struck dumb; I can’t tell them that they’ve got it wrong — I’m not mad. I burst out through the courtyard door and there is Van. She’s swinging by the neck from a giant easel. I start to paint her dying image with her pooling blood. Again I flit away; hear laughter and peer in through a window at Johannes and Max. They stare straight through me. I am nothing. No one. Cast adrift. And now I’m flung into a room where Dad lies and I know with all my being he’s taking his last breaths. I grasp his hand and raise it to my lips. His eyes fly open and stare straight into mine.
It’s all your fault
, he says.
Your fault. Yours.