Dear Vincent (9 page)

‘I need the loo.’ I don’t wait to see how he reacts, just stumble through the groping bodies to find Roshane. She points me up the stairs. I lock myself inside and plonk down on the toilet.
What the hell is going on?
I don’t know what to make of this — part of me yearns to go further, the rest screams to pull back. And now here’s Van as well:
You gonna be a sad-sack virgin all your life?
I try to block her out. All the warnings I’ve
had about sex fight for attention in my head.

When I unlock the door, Louis is waiting. My insides twist. ‘Good plan,’ he says, and takes my hand again. He leads me down the passageway and through an open door. Shuts it behind him and snibs a lock.

It’s a bedroom, probably Roshane’s, judging by the male pin-ups on the walls. I hold my hand up to repel him but he moves in fast. He’s kissing me again, pressing me against the door. Heat melts all my bones as he grinds his pelvis into mine.

Now his tongue breaks through our crush of lips, darts in and out then plunges deep. I try to pull away — I don’t like it — but my head just butts the door. His hand reaches under my tee shirt and slides up until it’s cupped over my left breast. My nipple rises to his touch.
Jesus
. He purrs right in the back of his throat as his other hand snakes in behind me. With one deft move he’s unhooked my bra. When his fingers meet my risen flesh, it’s so electrifying I jolt him back.

‘No,’ I say, my voice ridiculously husky. My head is in a spin.
Why not?
Van shrieks.
Don’t you deserve a little love?

He smiles down at me with his engorged lips. ‘It’s okay. I’ve got one of these.’ He fumbles in his jeans pocket and brandishes a condom. ‘Come on, baby, help me put it on.’

The picture that explodes inside my head is so X-rated it scares the holy crap out of me. ‘No.’ I turn my back on him and grope for the lock. It gives beneath my hand and I fling open the door.

‘Teasing bitch.’

Screw him
. I take off down the stairs, contorted as
I try to rehook my bra. I’m sure what’s happened is stamped all over my stupid face.
I wanted it
. For a few amazing, intense moments, I was ready to give in. I push out through the gaggle by the kitchen door, not daring to meet anyone’s eye. When I reach my bike I almost sob out a Hail Mary in relief.

I race like Satan’s after me, though clearly he’s already in my head.
What’s wrong with me?

I don’t see the deep pothole till my front wheel hits it. Next thing I’m flying through the air.

I smash onto the road, bike tangling on top of me, and lie staring up into a starless sky. My palms and elbows sting. My forehead too. I try to move.
Everything hurts.
I can’t stop the shaking or self-pitying tears.

When the worst of the shock dies down, I force myself to my feet. I pick up my bike and push it back to Max’s place, gritting my teeth against the rub of my jeans on my grazed knees. It’s a hell of a way to sober up.

The lights are on in the upstairs flat. I wheel my bike around the back, hoping to slip in without Johannes knowing I’m home.
God damn.
He’s sitting on the steps, his face lit up in horror as the security light pings on.

‘Bloody hell! What happened?’ He takes the bike off me and parks it on its stand.

‘More proof of my stupidity.’

‘Did you fall off?’

I nod. When I scrabble for the key, he produces his. I limp into the bathroom and switch on the light. Not good. Both my palms are skinned and full of gravel — as are my knees. The mirror reveals my blood-streaked face. I’m cut above the eye.

Johannes appears in the doorway behind me. ‘I’ve
been waiting for you since you finished work.’ He sounds accusing, as if we’d made a plan.

All I can do is shrug — the new default of Tara the Untouchable. That famously unlovable, teasing bitch.

For the second time in as many days, he takes antiseptic and cotton wool from the first-aid kit and gently washes the gravel out. I bite my lip to hold back my pathetic groans. When it’s over and I’m smeared in antiseptic cream, he makes cups of tea.

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry about everything. You must think I’m a total flake.’

He takes a loud air-filled sip. ‘Not total.’ He grins. ‘Just now and then.’

‘Has Max told you exactly what’s been going on for me?’

He shakes his head. ‘Just that you’re having a hard time.’

My laugh is bleak. ‘Yeah, you could say that.’ Should I tell him everything? Why not? It’s not like he can think any less of me than he does right now. I sip my tea. Prepare myself. Okay …

I tell him about Dad’s stroke and about the way that Mum and Dad have treated us. Our rotting house. Van’s death. Mum’s lies. I even hint about the way Vin and Van compete inside my head. I leave out tonight’s hideous fiasco. All through this he says nothing; his steady gaze unflinching. It’s like stripping off my clothes and standing naked — though, just as he did when I was in the shower, he somehow makes it feel safe.
Please God, don’t let him think that I’m a total loon.

‘Shit,’ he says at last. ‘I understand your paintings
better now. That’s a hell of a story.’

‘It’s not been a whole lot of fun.’

‘So do you know the man you saw your mum with?’

‘I don’t have a clue who he is.’

‘Maybe you should ask her. It’s possible he’s just a friend.’

‘Funny way to hang out with a friend. Anyway, you saw the way she goes psycho when I stand up to her. Besides, how can I believe a word she says?’

‘True. Have you thought of writing to your uncle? Perhaps he knows something that would help explain the way they act.’

Uncle Royan?
Why didn’t I think of that? He’s the only one who showed concern for Van. ‘Yeah, thanks. Maybe I will. Anyway, enough of my dirty laundry — how about you?’

He looks flustered. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on. When I asked about your dad the other day you nearly bit my head off.’

‘Did I? There’s not much to tell. He and Mum had a fling at university. It didn’t last.’

‘You don’t see him?’

‘When I hit thirteen I had this overwhelming urge to get to know him. Up till then Mum and Opa were enough. He agreed to meet me but he didn’t have a clue how to react. He’s a full-on pointy-head — spends his life researching some obscure amoeba. After a couple of excruciating failures at the father–son thing I gave up.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I reach over and brush my hand down his arm. ‘It’s lucky you inherited his smarts without his hang-ups then.’

‘If only … I’m pretty sure the main reason he didn’t want a bar of me is that I couldn’t match his brain.’ He sounds so sad. So full of disappointment at himself.

‘Max doesn’t think so. He told me you’re the smartest guy he knows.’

His eyes light up. ‘He did?’ He places his cup beside him on the floor and stretches out his long, long legs. ‘Did he tell you his own story?’

‘About his aunt? Yes, just tonight.’

‘No, I mean about what happened before he left Vienna.’

‘No. What?’

‘It’s kind of personal, but I’m sure he won’t mind if I tell you. Just be careful if you mention it.’

‘Of course.’ I try not to look too eager but really want to know.

‘The story goes that by the time Opa was fifteen, things were getting pretty ugly in Vienna. Nazi propaganda about the Jews was spreading everywhere. Because Opa’s mother was a practising Catholic and Opa looked like he came from good pure Aryan stock — blonde hair, blue eyes — he was seen as the perfect candidate for Hitler Youth. He tried to stay well clear of it — people think we have peer pressure today, but they don’t know the half of it — but he had to be careful in case he gave his father away.’

‘It must’ve been horrible. Scary too.’

‘You bet. One afternoon he went out with a bunch of schoolmates and they came across this old tramp who did paintings in the backstreets. He was a brilliant painter, Opa said, but not all there. The ringleader of Opa’s pack outed him as a Jew. Said they should
dispose of him for Austria’s good.’

My heart is firing up. I’m not sure I want to know what happens next.

‘At first Opa tried to stop them but when they started hassling him about why he’d want to save a Jew, he knew he couldn’t risk them asking questions about his father’s family. Even if he ran away he feared they’d accuse him of sympathising — that was enough to bring suspicion down on him as well. They forced him to watch while they beat the old man to a pulp.’

‘My god.’

‘It really screwed him over. He still has nightmares. That’s why it took him so long to return after the war. Every time he thought of home, all he pictured was the old man’s splattered brains. They threw them round. Opa ended up covered in the poor old bastard’s blood and gore.’

‘Poor Max. How does he live with it?’ What was it he said tonight?
Running causes just as much torment to us as it does to those who chose to stay.

‘Philosophy — and lots of therapy,’ Johannes replies. ‘And a determination to protect all underdogs.’

I can’t resist it: ‘Woof.’

He grins. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I think what drew him to you was your love of Van Gogh. He feels the same. I think he sees parallels between Van Gogh’s life and that poor old man. Both ridiculed and victimised. Both killed by ignorant young men.’

‘But Vincent killed himself.’

‘That’s what people used to think. The guide at the Musée d’Orsay said that now there’s evidence some local kids tormented him and he was shot.’

Vincent murdered?
After all my hours of reading, researching and studying, how is it possible I didn’t know?

AFTER JOHANNES LEAVES
, I
crawl into bed. I still can’t believe what he told me.
Vincent shot? And not by his own hand?
I’m as shocked as when Mum kissed that man. All my illusions shattered.

The thing I can’t fathom is why, when Vincent staggered back into that little French village, he didn’t say that he’d been shot by someone else. He didn’t die until the end of the next day. There was time for Theo to come and sit with him, for them to talk. Even if it’s true, he lay there in his brother’s arms and willed his life away, of that I’m certain. His last reported words to Theo have stayed with me since I first read them:
I want to die like this
. I guess it’s possible he didn’t shoot himself but, deed done, walked towards it — welcomed it.
Dying’s hard
, he’d said,
but living’s harder still.
That’s what Max meant. I’m sure it’s how Van felt. And maybe she was right.

I get up as soon as it’s light. I have to paint this out. I shower to loosen my grazes so I can wield a brush, then set up a fresh new canvas and prepare my palette — blacks and browns. They fit my increasingly dark mood.

So Vincent just gave up the fight? No great dramatic suicide. No ‘fuck you’ to the world. Instead he let the circling wolves call the shots. No wonder Max could see the parallels.

Well, I’m not letting someone else decide my life for me — where I live, what I paint, when I die. I’m quite capable of doing that for myself. I’m not going back to school. In fact, I realise now, I’d already decided when I asked Ms R to bring my paintings here, I just didn’t have the guts to admit it, even to myself. But after last night’s humiliation in front of everyone I have no choice. Hell, Vincent lived his own way. I’ll up my hours at the rest home. Find a flat. Something — anything — to escape.

I check out Max’s CD collection but he owns so many I don’t know what to choose. I settle for what’s in the player: a Shostakovich symphony. It bursts straight into life, all pounding kettle drums and brass, the instruments pushing and shoving in a musical debate.

I glide my brush across the canvas and form a circle. A face appears, with narrowed, angry eyes. Of course it’s Mum — it was never going to be anyone else. I stab the brush in time to the percussion and the canvas comes to life. It’s Vincent’s best-known portrait of Gordina de Groot, but I replace her strange old-fashioned cloth bonnet with a nest of spitting snakes. Instantly her moist brown eyes take on a crueller glint.
Ha!
My mother as
Medusa: if you gaze at her directly you’ll turn to stone. Only, while Medusa was delivered of a mythical winged horse, Mum gave birth to Van. I paint Van now — the butterfly who got away — the only patch of colour in this underworld; her wings a bright flamboyant orange, warm and full of life. Protestant Orange.
Screw you
. They thought they’d wiped her out — but now the stain’s on them.

I dab myself in too: a broken crown that’s tossed aside. When I found out my name meant ‘queen’ I was enchanted. Now it’s just one more bad joke on me.

There’s a knock on the front door. I glance up at the clock. Just after twelve. If it’s Max or Johannes they’ll come around the back. I lean in to make a tricky brown touch-up as two women walk towards the sun porch door.
Shit
. It’s Ms Romano and our earnest counsellor.

‘Tara,’ Ms Romano calls. ‘I thought you might be here. May we come in?’

I usher them through to the lounge, aware how rough I look. I’m wearing shorts to spare my scabbed knees. My tee-shirt sleeve stops short of the marks on my arm. The bruised graze on my head is quite dramatic too. It complements my smarting palms.

They take a seat side by side on Max’s big soft leather couch. I perch in the window seat, shivering now I’m away from the trapped heat of the sun porch.

‘I’ve been worried,’ Ms Romano says. ‘When you didn’t show up for school again this morning I phoned your mum.’

‘You woke her up?’ I feel sick.

‘It sounded like it. I guess you know she has no idea where you are?’

Until now.
‘Clearly it’s not too hard to find me if she wanted to.’

‘She’s worried about you, Tara,’ Sandy says.

I snort. ‘Yeah right. Did she tell you that she tried to ban me from visiting Dad?’

They exchange a surprised look before Sandy replies. ‘I’m sure it’s not that bad—’

‘She had me thrown out by security.’

Ms Romano sighs. ‘Come on, Tara, you know that’s stretching the truth. She said you turned up in the middle of the night. That you were drunk.’

‘That’s quite some little chat you had.’ I fold my arms, tucking the evidence of my craziness against my chest. ‘Did she mention, by any chance, that she’s such a caring mother she failed to tell me my sister committed suicide?’

‘It’s not committed,’ Sandy jumps in. ‘That’s a leftover from the Crimes Act when—’ She stops herself. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, you’re right. Let’s call it what it is. My sister tied a rope around her neck and jumped. And why, I hear you asking? Damn good question.’ They’re clearly shocked. ‘Maybe Mum told you that too? How she and Dad ignored Van’s letters begging to come home.’

‘I thought she died in a car accident,’ Ms Romano says.

‘So did I.’

In the silence Sandy strangles the handle of her bag. I hope she’s picturing Mum.

Ms R looks so sad. ‘Okay, clearly there are some big issues that need sorting out between you, but what about school? Please — you can’t throw the towel in now.’

‘Why not? It’s not like I’m learning anything.’ I slap my head. ‘With everything that’s going on it’s impossible to think straight. And as for university, I’m never going to earn enough—’

‘But with a scholarship …’

‘Look what I’m painting …’ I point through to the sun porch. ‘You really think they’re going to pass
that?
’

‘Please, Tara, you need to listen to me for a moment —’ I open my mouth to argue but she continues — ‘without jumping in.’

I shrug. It seems I have no choice.

‘Do you know what your old school said when you first came to us?’

I shake my head. If she wants silence I can give it to her. But I’m worried now. What if they said that I’m not right?
You didn’t speak for months … and now you
hear voices in your head. It’s a dead cert.

‘They said you are exceptionally talented. That they’d never had another student as naturally gifted at drawing and painting as you.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ Does she really think I’d fall for
that?
‘They just say those things to make themselves look good. They have to justify the fees.’

‘Look, Tara …’ Her nose is turning pink, as it always does when she gets flustered. ‘You don’t just have to take my word for it.’ She scrabbles through her briefcase and in her rush to prove her point tips the whole thing on the floor. Papers, books and pens spill everywhere.

I bend down and scoop up a jumble of papers. Her diary too. The pages are splayed open and a date on one of the blank pages leaps out at me: July 12th.

‘Here it is.’ Ms R thrusts a printed page at me. ‘My old flatmate’s the head of Fine Arts at the university. I emailed him some photos of your work. Read what he said.’

I stare down at the printout but all I can see is that diary date.
The anniversary of Van’s death.
How could I have forgotten?

‘Well?’ she says. ‘That should clear up your doubts.’

I blink to refocus. Force myself to read the words.

‘It doesn’t change the fact that it costs money to go,’ I say. I almost wish she hadn’t shown me. It’s like putting a four-course meal in front of a starving man, then whipping it away.

Now Sandy adds her two cents. ‘I’m sure your mother will help you find a way to deal with that. She’ll want the best for you.’

I laugh, but it’s not kind. ‘Good point, Sandy. Mum’s done everything she possibly could to make my life one nice big easy stroll in the park.’

She bristles, blotches blooming up her neck. ‘Clearly it’s not been, Tara, I grant you that. But how are we supposed to help you if you keep it to yourself?’

She’s got a point. Why didn’t I ask for help? ‘Maybe I thought that when you knew I had to work half days and care for Dad it would be obvious.’ This sounds whiny even to me.
Pathetic
. Was I waiting for the grown-ups to solve everything?

‘I’m so sorry, Tara,’ Ms Romano says. ‘I thought by giving you some space — and an open door — that if you needed me you’d ask. I had no idea until last week just what a state you’re in. Please let me help.’

She captures my hand and I don’t dare pull away, even though my grazes throb in protest. ‘I’m sorry too. You’ve been the only good thing about the whole place.’ She squeezes her thanks as I draw in a shuddering breath. ‘But I can’t come back.’

I feel her slump but I’m still distracted by the date of Van’s anniversary. If that was a sign, what does it mean?
Once your hands are in mine, I’ll be sure they’ll not sever,
Van sings inside my head.

‘I think I need to see the place Van died,’ I blurt.
‘Somehow get to Ireland.’ How much time is there? About four weeks? ‘Right away.’ They’re looking at me like I’m nuts. If only they knew. ‘I could use my savings.’

‘But your schoolwork—’ Ms R starts.

Sandy halts her. ‘Actually, Bella, I think that’s probably a really good idea.’ Both of us stare at her, agog. ‘I think Tara’s right. She needs to work it through and find some kind of closure so she can move on.’ Now she directs her gaze at me. ‘Have you someone you could go with? Or someone you can stay with while you’re there?’

I can’t believe they’re taking this seriously. ‘Well, there’s Dad’s brother, Royan, in Belfast. Van was staying with him and his family before she died.’

‘Is he the kind of man to help you?’

His letter is etched into my brain.
She’s a fine girl with more brains than all of us put together
… ‘Actually, I think he is.’

Now she turns to Ms Romano. ‘What if we got her a dispensation to take a few weeks off — until after the holidays? I’m sure there’s a good case for compassionate leave.’

Way to go, Sandy!
‘Thanks. I’d appreciate it if you could find out.’ That’ll get them off my back for now. ‘Did you tell Mum where I am?’

Beside me Ms Romano stiffens. ‘Not yet. But I’m hoping you’ll tell her yourself. If I get asked officially I’ll have to say.’ She glances from Sandy back to me. ‘Please, Tara. I’d hate to be forced into that position.’

I do my best to look as though she’s talked me round, but I’m damned if I’ll give her any verbal assurances. I stand and walk her back through to the sun-porch door. As we approach the painting, Ms R stops to study it.

‘You’ve really got the feel of his brushwork now. It’s quite extraordinary.’ She gives me a quick hug. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ She smells of perfume and sweat.

Sandy presses a business card into my hand. ‘Here’s my number. Ring me if there’s anything I can do.’

I watch them walk away, embarrassed that they made the effort. Then I lean in the doorway, soaking in the sun. As for dashing off to Ireland … though my heart strains towards it, who’s to say Uncle Royan’s really any better than Dad? Or that he’d even want me there, given his experience with Van.

BEFORE I LEAVE FOR
work, I take a page out of my sketchbook and make a little thank you card for Johannes. I prop it on the upstairs doorstep. He must wonder how the hell he got caught up with me. I’m glad he did, though. I really like his calmness. And the fact he talks about interesting things. Compared to Louis … I shudder and swallow back a gag reflex.

Mad though it is, I’m looking forward to talking through the Ireland idea with Max. If there’s anyone who understands the push and pull, it will be him. But I’ve only just walked into his room when one of the other nurse aides comes rushing after me.

‘There’s a woman at reception to see you.’

Mum!
Ms Romano’s phone call will have shamed her into looking like she cares.

She’s crumpled from lack of sleep and wearing baggy trackpants and an over-sized tee-shirt. Her hair shows
grey along the roots. Vonda, on reception, is all ears.