Dear Vincent (4 page)

The hospital looms into sight. I need to get my story straight before Mum attacks. I could leave out my part — Dad’s in no state to tell. But that would make me as big a hypocrite as her. My thoughts are no clearer by the time we reach A and E. A band of freezing pressure squeezes at my temples, setting off a ringing in my head. Mum’s pacing at the entrance to the ambulance bay, already reaching for the back door handles as we pull up.

While she shoots questions at the medic, I try to think myself invisible. Her eyes are surveillance cameras, her mouth a red-lipped autotron spewing medical code. She knows I’m here though — her anger radiates in toxic waves. I start to hyperventilate, shrinking back against the cold wall of the ambulance, too scared to meet the inquisition head on.
Not now
. Not when I’m already so undone by Van.

When she helps to wheel Dad into the building, I take my chance. Leap out the doors and sprint down the covered entranceway, then out onto the street. My pulse throbs, fast and urgent.
Run-run, run-run.
What more can she expect of me? I’ve done my duty: delivered him alive to A and E. There’s nothing more I can do.

My pyjamas flap under my jacket, bare feet so numb it feels like I’m bouncing off foam. My breath returns to me in puffs of mist. Senses on high alert, my gut clenches at every unexpected shadow. After about five minutes I’m forced to slow, bent double by the stitch. In an instant the energy drains away, pooling in the
shadows by my feet.
What the hell am I thinking
? I’m miles from home, undressed, with no resources. Even Van never would’ve taken such a risk. She’d have money in her pocket (possibly stolen). She definitely would’ve had a phone. And best of all, she’d have her
attitude
: ‘Fuck with me and I’ll fuck you over big time.’ Me, I’m a walking target.

I limp my way over to an all-night petrol station, the asphalt like crushed glass under my feet. I press my face to the cashier’s window and ask him to call a taxi.

At home, I persuade the cabbie to wait while I raid the last of this week’s wages. Then I start to pack. I can’t stomach staying here; won’t wait for the blame game to unfold. Mum’s not like Dad. She beats you in a hundred more subtle ways. A cuff as you’re passing, a stinging slap. Though it’s the violence of her tongue that draws most blood. Or the brooding, sour silences that last for days.

I throw clothes, toiletries, a pillow and a sleeping bag into a big holdall. In another I carefully pack my sketchbooks, painting gear and as much from Van’s box as I can fit. Both bags are now too heavy to lift, and dragging them on their roller wheels is like tugging two tantruming toddlers. I bump them over the front doorstep and down the street, heading for Twilight House. There’s nowhere else to go.

The clatter from the wheels travels so loudly through the still, cold air that dogs burst from their kennels as I pass. I’m probably the only person in this entire suburb still awake — or so alone. Is this how Van felt before her death? No one to turn to in her hour of need?

I stop to rest a moment. Perched on a low stone wall,
I tip my head back to survey the stars. How many nights did Vincent sit like this? Alone and shunned, hungering for human contact. I think of his heartbreaking letters to Theo, full of pining for a fantasy relationship they never had. Is this how Van saw me? The sister she relied on for unconditional love? Stability? Or was it actually the other way round? Maybe, like Vincent, I needed Van more than she needed me.

I finally make it to Twilight House just after one and press the after-hours bell. Asher, one of the regular agency nurses, answers. Thank god we’ve met before. He buzzes me in.

‘What are you doing here?’ He eyes my bruises, then checks me up and down. It’s no strain to appear the damsel in distress.

‘My father’s just been ambulanced to hospital. There’s no one at my house.’

He’s a good man, Asher. There’s no way he would turf out a girl on a freezing night. ‘Take one of the
fold-up
beds down to the library. I’ll get Charmaine to bring you a cup of tea.’

‘Thank you. I knew you’d understand.’ I brush a kiss beside his ear. He smells of antiseptic wipes.

Once I’ve thawed out enough to speak without my teeth chattering, I sneak into the office and ring through to the hospital for news of Dad. I’m put through to a ward.

‘Stroke Unit.’

‘Hey, it’s Tara McClusky here. My father Patrick McClusky’s just come in. I wondered if you could give me an update, please? Tell me how he is?’

There’s a moment’s awkward silence.
Christ
. He
hasn’t died, has he? ‘I’m sorry but that’s confidential information.’

‘But I’m his daughter. Please, is he all right? I’m the one who brought him in.’

The woman clears her throat, then lowers her voice to an undercover hiss. ‘Look, we’ve had instructions from your mother not to give you any information.’

I flinch as if she’s punched me in the gut. Dredge air back in.

‘That’s ridiculous! Please. I just want to know if he’ll be okay.’ I can’t control the little-girl wobble in my voice.

She groans. ‘Like I said, it’s confidential. But he’s stabilised, okay? Though he’ll need more tests.’

There’s so much more I’d like to ask but I don’t want to push my luck. ‘Thank you, I really appreciate your help.’

I hang up and stare at the silent phone. How much does a mother have to hate her child to do that? Okay, so I bolted. But I brought him in. And I was home, like I’ve been stuck there every night for five years, eight months, twenty-seven days.

The trouble is it’s my fault he flipped — and Mum seems to know.
My parents are The Thought Police
…
he downloads all his paranoid suspicions into Mum.
No. That’s ludicrous. Who’s paranoid now?

I stumble back to the library and climb into my sleeping bag. I’ve got a whole night ahead of me to stew over how much I’ve stuffed things up. I lasted all this bloody time — worked hard and swallowed all the shit. I only had six more months before I could escape without bad blood or drama. What the hell am I going to do now?

AT SIX THIRTY I’M
woken from a restless doze by the morning shift arriving to start their day. I’m wrung out after spending the glacial hours before dawn reliving every moment of last night. I repack my gear and stow it in one of the laundry storage rooms, then sneak toast and a cup of tea. I’m out the door just after seven, before the daytime manager comes, and head for school. The buildings stand silent, hollow shells waiting for six hundred teenage lungs to breathe them back to life.

Inside my refuge off the art room, Van’s hooded eyes burn into me from yesterday’s work.
You screwed up, Miss T. You’re supposed to be the goodie-good. The clever one.
I take the painting off the easel, careful not to smudge the soft coating of oils. I can’t deal with this today. My nerves are raw.

Instead, I place a new canvas onto the frame. Stand with a stick of charcoal in my hand and close my eyes.
A gallery of images flickers behind my lids: Mum weaving her poisoned net of lies … Dad frothing and thrashing … Van … I shock my eyes back open to flee her swinging corpse. How am I supposed to live with this? Once something’s seared into your brain it’s there for life.

I’m pulled towards the easel and my hand rises of its own accord to sketch out twisted veins. They radiate from the bottom of the canvas, reaching up, transforming into branches. I fill them in, shading the outlines to make them three-dimensional — real, knobbly, living wood striving for the sun. I know now what I’m working towards: a calm Vincent has slipped into my skin and offered up his sweetest celebration of new life for me to reinvent.

I throw the charcoal down and snatch up a thick, flat pig-hair brush. Mix turquoise, ultramarine and just a touch of titanium white until I find the perfect match for his hopeful
Almond Blossom
sky. Next I underpaint the whole canvas, modulating the depth of colour from the bottom to the top. With this subtle variation the expanse of sky takes flight towards the sun. Immediately it’s easier to breathe, as if it’s blowing oxygen into my gasping pores.

I switch to a small round brush to block in the weaving branches, outlining them in delicate threads of oriental black. Now I start to paint the actual wood with sweeping strokes of grey and green. Some reckon
Almond Blossom
was Vincent’s last real nod to life — his way of welcoming Theo’s new son. I bet he cried when he heard Theo called the baby Vincent.

If I ever had a girl there’s no way I’d call her Vanessa.
I’d call her Van. Like my Van. Like Vincent. It didn’t strike me that they shared this scrap of name until Ms Romano pointed it out — how blind is that? I’m sure she thinks I’m obsessed and weird. She’s probably right.

Outside my little hideaway, the school is filling up — shouting, banging, tramping footsteps. Soon I’ll have to stop. A knot of panic hardens behind my ribs. I should be cleaning up my brushes now before I head to English, but my pulse spikes at the thought of leaving. Besides, what’s the point? All my expensive schooling has taught me is a new vocab to articulate the fact my life is shit. Classic novels aren’t going to save me from Mum’s slasher tongue. Painting sure as hell won’t pay the bills. And though Art History offers windows into other worlds, most are as impoverished as mine. So what, exactly, do I have to take into adult life? Top marks in Submissive Daughter 301, with extra Honours in Passive Gullibility and Latent Catholic Guilt. Why is it we only recognise this kind of stuff when it’s too late?

The door flies open and Ms R bursts in beneath a stack of cartridge paper.

‘Tara! Sorry, I didn’t know you were here.’ Her gaze shifts to my new painting. ‘Nice. I always loved that one. How will you make it yours?’

‘Not sure yet.’ I’m loath to meet her eye. She reads me far too well.

She lays the paper down and curls her arm through mine. ‘What’s up, kid? You look like hell.’

‘Bad night. Dad’s back in hospital.’ This eking out of half-truths makes me no less a liar, but what good would it do to reveal all? Next thing you know she’d be on the phone to Mum.

Her hold tightens. ‘What happened?’

I shrug away and back off. Shame plasters my cheeks red. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard.’ My throat aches from the effort not to cry.

As the bell blares she takes a step towards me. I edge further back. ‘Listen, Tara. You don’t have to cope with this all on your own. That’s what Sandy’s here for — she could help.’

Surely she must know that if you’ve seen the school counsellor it’s like a secret signal?
Nothing
is more appetising to the wolves who roam my school than loony female meat. ‘I know. I’m just tired. I’ll be fine.’

A crash erupts from the classroom beyond. Ms Romano rolls her eyes. ‘Sorry, I’d better go. Where are you supposed to be now?’

‘English.’

She holds the door open so I have no choice but to leave. I walk through the corridors, buffeted by the incoming tide of students, pressure building in my head until it feels like it will blow. I reach the classroom and slip into a seat in the back row, avoiding eye contact. My classmates know nothing of the real me nor I of them. It’s all so superficial — a whisper of gossip here, a dirty innuendo there. They’ve never come to my house. Never tried.
Come on now, that’s not true.
Okay, so when I first arrived the girls were friendly but I was still too stuck in icy shock to respond. Couldn’t cope. By the time I decided to make the effort, I’d driven everyone away.

I try to concentrate, but the words bat up against my ears then fall away. Twenty minutes in, I wait until the teacher’s back is turned, then collect my gear and run.
I need some quiet time to think. I have no idea where I will stay tonight — I just know I’d rather sleep on the streets than spend another night with all the death, deception and decay at home.

I end up outside the art room again. When Ms R’s attention is diverted, I stroll through to my little room as if everything is fine. But once inside I slither down the wall and bump onto the floor. I feel as if someone has pulled my plug. I want to wind back time — right back to before Van turned twelve. This time I’d keep her safe. Stand up for her. Protect her. This time I wouldn’t let her go off all alone and die.

AS THE BELL RINGS
, I’m plucked out of my frenzy like a swimmer from a stormy sea. I glance up at the clock.
My god
. It’s lunchtime, and the painting in front of me makes the hairs rise on my neck. Did I do
that
? I can recall the urge that tugged me from the floor, but not the last three hours. Nor the bells for break. And certainly not
this
.

It’s Vincent’s almond tree all right, the vibrant blue still glowing in the background — but those fragile white blossoms aren’t flowers any more. Each tiny bloom depicts a bloodless face. Every connecting stem a tiny noose of rope. How could I have painted something so detailed — so dreadful — and not know? Yet here’s my smallest brush, white-tipped with oils, and I have not the slightest recollection of its use.

The image is so terrible and startling I can’t bear
look at it up close. It’s like my nightmare world has leaked onto the canvas while my back was turned. I dunk my brushes into turps, pack my gear and get the hell out.

I set off for the hospital, hoping Mum’s not there. I have a burning need to see Dad, to reassure myself I’m not responsible for speeding up his death. Crazy, I know. Who the hell would seriously want to prolong his life?
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned
…

The bike ride helps to ease my jitters. By the time I reach the hospital I’m almost calm. I check in at the main reception desk, then head up to his ward. There’s something about the smell of hospitals that’s like no other place: that special blend of antiseptic and congealing fat. The rest home has it too, though with an extra seasoning of human waste.

There’s no one at the nurses’ station when I check the whiteboard for Dad’s room number. I edge up to his door. It’s clear.

He’s hooked up to a whole raft of machines, including a ventilator to help him breathe. Not a good sign. His skin’s still grey, its texture dry and sagging in limp folds strung out between the bones that form his face. His bristles are startlingly white, his eyes two sunken gummy holes. It’s hard to picture him as young and healthy any more — when I try all I find are screenshots of his fiery anger, eyes blazing, mouth curled in a thin-lipped sneer. I must have happier memories — right? —but nothing cuts through the years of almost constant crap.

I sit down beside him and take his hand. The veins and sinews stand out like knotted cords under his thinning skin.
Oh, Dad.
How is it possible to both hate and love you all at once?

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to make you worse.’

Whoosh, suck. Whoosh, suck.
The mechanical rise and fall of his chest is mesmerising. When I can finally drag myself away, I scan the chart that hangs at the foot of his bed. Nope, no help. It may as well be in Chinese. I pat his foot then leave the room. There’s a nurse outside, sorting files.

‘Hi. I’m Paddy McClusky’s daughter. Could you please tell me how he is?’

The way she eyes me says it all. Go, Mum. ‘I’m afraid I can’t—’

‘Look,’ I say. ‘He’s my dad. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care.’ The poor woman is wavering, clearly caught between Mum’s guilt trip and my own. ‘Please. How would you feel if he was your dad?’ I’ve heard Mum try such tactics on the bank manager.
What if he was your father … your husband … your son …

Heat mottles the poor woman’s neck. Then she nods. ‘As you know, he’s had a seizure. It’s not uncommon after a stroke, even this far down the track — but it means there could be an increased likelihood he’ll have more. We’ll need to monitor him and do further investigations in case the seizure’s made things worse.’

‘So he’ll be in here for a while?’

‘I expect so. Several weeks.’

Thank god for that! Someone else to take responsibility for him. ‘When is it best for me to visit?’ I catch her gaze, hoping she’ll understand what’s left unsaid.

Her eyes reassure me. ‘Your mother said she’d be in before and after her own shifts. You should be fine to visit around this time each day.’

‘Thank you. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate
your help.’ I can sense her watching me all the way down the corridor until I’m out the door. As soon as I’m out of sight, I lean against the wall and gulp down several relieved breaths. I’m free! I have no reason now to go back home. He’s in safe hands. So long as he’s in here nothing more can be blamed on me. I snub the lifts and skip down all six flights of stairs.

At work I make a beeline for the Professor’s room, only to discover that he’s out. Still, the time sails by without much stress, and I manage to convince the late shift to let me stay another night. Tomorrow, once I’ve had a decent sleep, I’ll be in better shape to sort out what to do.

But once the last of the old wanderers have settled and the place rings with snores, my insecurities flood back. Every time I close my eyes I see my painting, the little faces animated with grimaces of horror, fear and grief. I wrap a blanket round my shoulders and go to make myself a cup of Ovaltine. A memory stirs. Van bringing me a cup, then snuggling into bed with me and whispering stories till I drifted back to sleep. Not only her own imaginings, but a whole repertoire of other favourites too.

High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword hilt …
She’d memorised it all and when she came to the most plaintive part I chimed in too, my voice thick with rising dreams.
Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not stay with me one night more?
And if not ‘The Happy Prince’ then the story of the Selfish Giant.
I have many
beautiful flowers in my garden but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all
… Or ‘The Small One’, with the sad little donkey whose stubbornness led to destiny fulfilled. They’re still the most important moral lessons of my life — far more than the sanctimonious coercion of the Church.

As I walk back from the kitchens I notice that the door out to the courtyard is cracked open. The glowing red eye of a cigarette arcs through the night to light up the Professor’s face as he inhales. I slip outside. The night is cold, the stars impossibly bright.

‘Evening,’ I call, not wanting to take him by surprise. ‘I missed you today.’ I tuck the blanket under me and sit on the bench next to him, warming my hands around the cup.

‘I got a day’s parole for good behaviour.’ I can hear the wry smile in his voice. ‘And you, my dear? You like the place so much that now you live here too?’

I laugh. ‘How’d you guess?’ I can tell he’s waiting for me to say more. It’s easier, somehow, to confess in the dark. ‘Home and I parted company before I had a chance to figure out Plan B.’