by Mandy Hager
Uncle Royan and Aunt Shanaye don’t get me. It’s not their fault. It’s just their place is overcrowded and they don’t approve of my new friends. Do you expect me to spend every day here on my own? I’m going mad.
I’m sorry that I cause you extra stress, Mum. Please write back soon. Please don’t stop loving me. I need to know that you’re still there. Give Tara a big kiss from me and tell her thank you for the picture. I’ve hung it on the bedroom wall. Tell her that I think it’s her best one yet.
All my love, Your Van. xxxx
I’m consumed by fury. I can well imagine the veiled blackmail and pious accusations Mum must have employed. She’s the bloody champ.
I storm into the bedroom where Dad’s already snoring like a snotty kid. Shake him awake. Watch his panicked eyes fix on my face, this man who helped to cause my sister’s death. He has to shoulder half the blame, stroke or not.
‘You know you killed her? You and Mum?’ His eyelids flare, his gaze shifting and hardening as my meaning hits. ‘She begged for help and all she got was disapproval and rejection …’ I pant out the words, don’t care that I’m bawling. ‘All she wanted was some love.’
He thrashes in the bed, spittle stringing down his chin as he tries to speak.
‘I bet you wish you had the strength to thrash me too. You’re bloody bullies. Why the hell did you have kids? Well, you can stick your righteous indignation up your arse. You’re going to Hell and so is Mum. I wish I could be there to see you burn.’
He moans, his eyeballs straining in their pits, but I don’t care. I turn my back. I hate him, hate them both. But now he makes an unfamiliar sound. I spin around to find his body rigid, spasms jolting through him like high-voltage shocks. My god, he’s having some kind of fit.
I grab his shoulders and try to ground him. ‘Dad! Come on, come on, it’s me.’ His eyes are rolling, burst blood vessels staining their gelatinous whites. ‘Don’t do this to me now, come on. Don’t you bloody dare.’
I snatch up the bedside phone and dial 111.
‘Ambulance. Please hurry. My dad’s having a seizure.’
The woman fires questions at me while the spasms slow, then stop — but now he looks as if he’s dead. I fumble for the pulse point at his neck. Hold my breath until I feel the faint flutter of life. Thank god. I roll him on his side and clear his frothy tongue back from his throat. The smell of sweat and urine wafts up from the bed.
It’s only now I start to shake. I collapse to my knees. Dear God, don’t let him die. Not now. Not like this. I didn’t mean this to happen. I only wanted him to understand the pain that he and Mum had caused. The waste.
Stupid, stupid girl.
WHEN I HEAR THE siren blaring I run to meet it at the door. The paramedics try to rouse Dad as I gabble his past history. No luck. Next they haul out oxygen masks, blood pressure gauges, drips and fuck knows what while I am pinned against the wall by shock.
As they start to wheel his stretcher out, one of them peels off to check on me.
‘Is there anyone you can contact, love?’
Dread punches at my bladder. Don’t upset your father. It’s dangerous to get him all worked up. ‘Mum works at the hospital. I’ll ring and she can meet you there.’
‘You going to come?’
My head starts shaking ‘no’, but my conscience pricks. ‘Yeah, thanks.’ It’s all my fault. History is repeating itself, one sinful daughter at a time.
I direct dial through to Mum’s ward and wait while they seek her out.
‘What’s happened?’ she demands in her first breath.
‘Dad’s had some kind of fit. They’re bringing him in now.’
‘Sweet Jesus. Is he conscious?’
‘No.’ I feel her glaring down the phone. ‘I’ve gotta go. We’re leaving now.’
I grab my jacket and lock the house, then scramble into the back of the ambulance. Under the oxygen mask, Dad’s face is dry and elephant grey.
‘Do you think he’s going to die?’ I ask the medic who’s monitoring him. I feel sick, not sure what I want to hear.
‘He’s not in a good way, love. But they’ll do some tests once when we get him in.’
‘Will they be able to tell what caused it?’ Inside my head Mum points her finger straight at me.
He shrugs. ‘Depends on the results. With what you’ve told us of his history, his brain is very likely just a series of time bombs waiting to go off.’
Ironic that Dad left Ireland to escape the bombings, only to be ambushed inside his own skull. If there is a God, he’s clearly into black humour.
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?
4
What the moulting season is for birds … setbacks, misfortune and hard times are for us human beings.
— VINCENT TO THEO, CUESMES, JULY 1880
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 s
tuck 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.
