The Strange Year of Vanessa M

by Filipa Fonseca Silva

  The lawyer, mortified, was trying to calm everyone down and make Vanessa’s aunt shut up, while his wife, sitting on a beach chair in her black swimsuit and enormous straw hat of matching colour, shook with laughter.

  “Don’t tell me you’re slipping it to old women now too? Oh Miguel, your standards are falling, Darling!” she said to her husband, taking a small metal-plated bottle out of her beach bag and gulping down the contents.

  Vanessa’s aunt turned red and returned to her umbrella, embarrassed. Although she didn't know if she was more embarrassed for herself, or for the lawyer, or for his wife. The couple’s children came out of the water and were surprised to learn they were going home already, just when they’d set out their pitch. But they were so used to the arguments and bad-tempered outbursts of their parents that they simply gathered up their things and set off towards the car, without the slightest sign of protest. Vanessa kept her distance, watching the family depart. For a few moments she felt that compared to this family, hers was completely normal.

  Appearances could be deceiving, it’s true, but surely no one looking at this family could ever imagine the reality, a lovely and elegant woman, a wealthy, good-looking man, two lovely and good-mannered children. And the reality was an alcoholic, an adulterer and two messed-up kids. The question was, whether the wife had become an alcoholic because her husband was an adulterer, or whether the husband had become an adulterer to escape an alcoholic wife. One way or the other, those kids had years of therapy ahead of them.

  Vanessa went and joined her aunt. They looked at each other in amazement and didn't mention it again. It was too surreal for words.

  2.

  In the second fortnight of the holidays, time began to drag. The house was too quiet without Mimi, even with Vanessa’s aunt darting around as ever. Not only was she missing her daughter, but also Vanessa was haunted daily by the divorce papers, which her husband insisted on signing. Every time she picked them up they weighed like lead, with that cold language devoid of any emotion, memory or anything human. Language that left no room for what really made a marriage. She’d managed to gain another fortnight with the excuse that her lawyer was out of town and she hadn't been able to talk to him. But what she really wanted was the courage to tell her husband she didn't want to sign the papers. It was still too early. Only four months had passed, and they felt like four days. She still didn't want to go back, but she didn't want to close that door forever either.

  Her plan for the cake business was her escape. Every day she did sums, made measurements, tried new recipes and looked for a place. Afterwards, at the end of the day, she’d go for a dip in the sea and lie and watch the sunset, learning to be alone without feeling lonely. On her way back home she’d walk through the narrow streets of the village, which at this time of the evening was full of holidaymakers. The streets smelled of seaspray and grilled fish. It was on one of these walks that she noticed a little house with a dilapidated appearance and a To Let sign hanging from the window. The ground floor seemed to have been a small shop, with a tiny display window and an aluminium door. The upper floor must have been an attic, as all it had was the window with the sign hanging from it, the telephone number already a little faded. Obviously it wasn't a holiday rental, for if it was it would have been occupied at this time of year. It was equally obvious from the shabby paintwork and a broken windowpane that no one had lived there for a long time. How hadn't she noticed it before? It was exactly what she’d been looking for, shop below, house above. Hold your horses, she thought. It might be a horrible dump, or in ruins, or maybe no longer up for rent, given the weathered look of the sign. She wrote down the phone number and went home in a mixture of excitement and anxiety.

  The next morning she called the number, which she now knew by heart as she’d spent the whole night awake staring at it. The old man on the other end of the line offered to show her the house that same day, and even gave her a price that Vanessa thought was too good to be true. When she went to see the place her surprise was even greater. The ground floor had been a baker’s shop. There was an oven, a counter and even an old cash register. There were broken tiles and bare electrical wires, but nothing too difficult to fix. At the back of the shop was a door that opened onto the stairs to the upper floor. Vanessa followed the old man upstairs and almost yelped with joy when she saw what awaited her. It was an attic all right, but it was spacious and its little window had an incredible view of the beach. It had a bathroom with a makeshift shower and there was enough space to make a living area and a sleeping area. She could even install a kitchenette so she wouldn't have to use the shop’s cooker to make her meals. As the old man explained all the uses the room had been put to over the years, all Vanessa could think of was where she’d put the sofa and what colour she’d paint the walls. She’d have to do a little renovation work, but all in all this was the place she’d always dreamed about. All that was missing was the pink awning, a lampshade with coloured beads and a window full of cakes. And while she was at it she’d replace the aluminium door with a pretty wooden one. The deal was closed even before the old man had stopped talking.

  From that day on, Vanessa couldn’t get back to work quickly enough. She’d felt the same way before, when she’d been sick of putting up with her husband and daughter all day. But now it was for a much happier reason. Now she was saying goodbye to ten years of monotony. She knew it wouldn't be easy letting her boss know of her decision. He hated being taken by surprise, and her departure would mean one less person to do his work for him while he pretended to be up to his eyeballs. The outlook for the company (and the country in general) was not propitious to new recruitments, and it was highly unlikely they’d put someone else in Vanessa’s place. The cheapest and most common solution was simply to spread the work of the departing employee around those who remained, and if they didn’t like it they’d just have to lump it. By the look of things, it wasn’t just in her company that this was happening. You could hear people complaining about the same thing everywhere, in trains, cafés, and supermarkets. More work for less money. More dismissals and fewer pay rises. More over-qualified people with no alternative but to leave the country in search of a better life. People who, if they knew what Vanessa was about to do, would quickly join the list of those who thought she was mad. How could a person hand in their notice at a time like this? A time when fear made people keep quiet and wait for better days, and not make waves if you didn't want to be on the list of the next heads to roll. Fear that makes people obedient, servile, and grateful for the pittance they’re paid. The fear that’s taking us back into the Dark Ages.

  Vanessa wasn't afraid. She felt triumphant, and full of enthusiasm for her plans and excited to be in control of her own destiny. This wasn't the first time her world had fallen apart and had to be rebuilt brick by brick. It had been much worse the first time; and she’d survived. That first time was when her father died.

  3.

  Her father’s suicide wasn't something Vanessa would discuss with just anyone. She’d told her husband once their relationship had started to get serious, and her analyst during her preliminary assessment. On both occasions she’d summed up the story in a single sentence, ‘My father had post-traumatic stress disorder and committed suicide when I was fifteen.’ Obviously it was more complicated than that.

  Vanessa had been born in a cold, pointless marriage, but since that was the only life she knew, up to a certain age the silences at table and the days her father never got out of bed seemed perfectly normal. Above all, they were offset by the days when he was fine and took her out to do things. As he had no idea how to keep a young girl amused, their outings consisted of fishing trips and football matches. So, by the age of six, Vanessa knew the names of the players of all the major teams, and all the football jargon. As she was a tomboy by nature, she loved these outings, no matter how sporadic they were, and they helped her endure those days when she’d look through the crack in the door and see her father lying in bed wit
h his eyes staring into nothingness. Vanessa’s mother refused to attach any importance to her husband’s chronic depression. ‘It’s nothing, it’ll pass.’ ‘He’s in a bad mood, don't speak to him.’ ‘He’s just resting, don't disturb him.’

  As the years passed and her mother’s dismissive remarks accumulated, Vanessa gradually began to understand the reasons for the bad days. But they seemed as stupid as her history classes, all the same. (Vanessa had always been better with numbers.) She found it ridiculous that someone who had survived the war should waste his life like this. What about the others who never came home? What would they have given for the opportunity to spend one more day on earth, a blue sky above them, going to watch a football match hand in hand with their daughter? It was all so long ago, why did he continue to be like this? Weren't his wife and his daughter enough to bring a smile to his face? Apparently not and this not grew inside Vanessa’s heart, souring her relationship with her father. She would talk back, gave up going to the football with him and made tremendous efforts not to laugh when he cracked a joke. Even so, she didn't lose the habit of snuggling up to him in bed on a Saturday morning while her mother was out shopping. On the good days they chatted and laughed, shared stories and secrets. On the bad days, Vanessa just hugged him until she felt his pulse slow down.

  That Saturday, Vanessa wasn't there to snuggle up with her father. She’d slept over at Diana’s house, one of her friend’s famous pyjama parties. Her mother had practically forced her to go, as Vanessa no longer liked these parties – especially since the films and board games had been replaced by bottles of booze and talk about boys and sexual experiences. But she didn't protest too much about going to the party. Stupid as it was, it was still better than another dinner in silence after a week where she’d been unable to wrench a single smile from her father. She felt like hitting him.

  “Want to go fishing tomorrow?” her father asked as Vanessa was finishing packing to go to Diana’s house.

  Vanessa wanted to. A lot. They hadn't been fishing for months and months and it was the favourite outing for both of them. But she was so irritated with him she said no.

  “I can’t. I’m sleeping over at Diana’s house and won't be back till tomorrow lunchtime.”

  “Ah…” he sighed, his gaze falling back to the floor.

  Vanessa felt the disappointment in that sigh, and almost changed her mind. But the urge to punish him was greater. She wanted him to feel what he was missing by giving up on life. She wanted him to understand that she wasn't always going to be there for him, that he should pay some attention to her while he had the chance. She wanted him to realize he had to try harder. So she slammed the door on her way out, not even saying goodbye.

  When she got to Diana’s house she called home to say she’d arrived. It was a condition her mother imposed, although Vanessa was fifteen now and Diana’s house wasn't a hundred yards away. It was her father that answered.

  “Hello dad, just to say I got here,”

  “Fine, Dear.”

  “Don’t forget to tell mum or she’ll have canaries.”

  “Fine, Dear, I’ll tell her.”

  “Okay then, see you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow, Dear. Kisses,” he said, and he was dead a few hours later.

  When she got home the next day her mother wasn't in. A neighbour was waiting at the front door for Vanessa to arrive, and told her that her father had had an accident and her mother was at the hospital. Vanessa couldn’t believe it. She felt a knot in her stomach and started shouting, “What accident? Where is he?” She couldn't understand why her mother hadn't gone to collect her at Diana’s house so she could go to the hospital too, or why no one would explain to her exactly what had happened. Why did she have to stay alone in the house?

  An hour later, the telephone rang. It was a friend of the family, offering condolences, “Condolences? What condolences? My dad isn’t dead! My dad only had an accident and he’s in hospital! My dad isn’t dead!” Vanessa shouted; blinded by the tears that spilled with every blink of her eye.

  But her mother’s entrance, escorted by the neighbours, dispelled all her doubts. Her mother hugged her, sobbing. “Daddy’s abandoned us, my child. Daddy’s given up on us.” Almost as strange as hearing these words was seeing her mother crying; a woman of steel, imperturbable, always in control of the situation, crumbling in front of her. Vanessa was unable to move. She wanted to break loose of those arms that embraced her too tightly, but her body wouldn't obey. She was absolutely focussed on the Why. Why had he given up, why didn't he ask for help, why hadn’t she gone fishing with him, why hadn't she given him a hug before leaving the house, why hadn't her mother made him see a psychiatrist, why wasn't she important enough for him to want to watch her growing up?

  After the funeral and various requiems, the house gradually got back to normal. The silences at the table continued and Vanessa’s mother, who by now had gone back to work, invented all sorts of rules and duties so that her daughter wouldn't stray far from home or fall into bad company. Curiously, all this rigid discipline made Vanessa more submissive. The fear of losing someone else prevented her from rebelling. She’d rather have the rules and duties, even the silences. She avoided school parties and holidays with friends. She kept thinking if she went out of the house, left her mother alone, something terrible would happen again. And that explained why, as the years passed, she’d become a woman with no will of her own. Why she’d followed the studies her mother had wanted her to follow, why she’d married so young when her dreams told her not to do it; and why she’d spent so many years doing what others expected her to do, and never what she really wanted to do.

  The first time her world fell apart, Vanessa had chosen the path of self-denial. And look where that had got her. This time she chose the path of determination. She wouldn't let fear paralyze her. She had to try. If she fell down, she’d fall down happily, without the weight of all those whys on her conscience.

  September

  1.

  “I’ve missed you,” Vanessa said sincerely.

  Her analyst smiled, surprised. The last few sessions had seen each of them’s trust in the other receding. Vanessa had clammed up again after her analyst’s insinuations about her bad choices, but with a month’s hindsight she could see he hadn't been judging her. He was merely urging her to think before acting. The worst thing was, he was right, as far as the episode with the lawyer was concerned, anyway.

  “How were the holidays? Good?”

  “They were great, and yours?”

  “You know I can't talk about my personal life…”

  “Oh come on, Doctor! What’s wrong with talking about your holidays a little?”

  Her analyst frowned, indicating it was better to change the subject. Vanessa shrugged and began talking like she’d never talked before. She told the story of the lawyer, the ups and downs of the time she’d spent with her daughter and all the plans she had for the shop. When she stopped to take a slug from her bottle of water, she felt like Diana. She’d been talking non-stop for over twenty minutes and they were halfway through the session already.

  “Well well, Vanessa, you’ve a lot to say today. And what about the divorce? Are you still going through with it?”

  “I don’t know... I don't want to…”

  “Really?”

  “Really… The time I spent alone with Mimi really made me think about the whole situation. It made me think about my father.”

  She’d spoken the magic word. Her analyst sat bolt upright in his chair and for the first time looked really interested in what Vanessa had to say.

  “One of the things that hurt me most about my father’s suicide was the feeling that I wasn't important enough to him. If he’d really loved me he’d never have left me. He would want to be there to see me finish school, walk me up the aisle, hold his grandchildren. It took me years and years to understand the mind doesn't work that way and when someone isn't well they do stupid and incomprehensi
ble things. But now I find myself doing exactly the same things with my daughter. I abandoned her; I made her feel she wasn't special enough for me to care about her. Even if it’s a temporary situation, until I’ve got everything straight in my head, until I know exactly what I’m doing, I’ve abandoned her all the same. Maybe one day she’ll understand me, like I learned to understand and forgive my father. Maybe she’ll even say I was right and it was better that way that it was good to take a stand and change the things that were stopping me from being happy. But I don't know if she’ll forgive me for all the lack of decision and for all the time I spent at home behaving like a zombie. And that just makes things more complicated.”

  “Why?” asked her analyst, excited by all these unsolicited confessions.

  “Because now I want custody of her; I can't bear just being with her two weekends a month and having to share her during the holidays. And I know that’s going to turn an amicable divorce into a nasty, drawn-out feud. Mutual accord my arse, I don’t even want to get divorced.”

  ”Really?”

  “Nope.”

  “Have you told your husband this?”

  ‘”Nope.”

  ”Why not?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” he insisted.

  ‘”Because right at this moment I think he hates me. He hates me to the point his expression changes when he sees me. As soon as I arrive at the house, his eyes turn from gentle and mild to dark and cold. If I try to make conversation he snarls back defensively and the only thing he asks is if I’ve spoken to my lawyer yet. And that’s where I lose my nerve. How do I tell him I don't want to speak to the lawyer and it’s still too early for divorce? He was firm about it, and he’s been firm about it all this time. When I left home I made a decision that for him is irreversible, and I have no right to ask him to put his life on hold while I make my mind up. Or do I, do you think? I haven't decided yet…”