by Mandy Hager
‘So what’s the story? Why are you here?’ He takes a sip of his tea. His hand is shaking as he lifts the cup. Is he as nervous as me?
I’m not sure what the Professor told him on the phone but I can feel Johannes waiting. I may as well just spit it out. ‘I had a run-in with my mum and it seemed best to leave.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, well yours may care too much but mine quite frankly doesn’t give a stuff.’ There’s the hardness back in my voice. It’s deeply unattractive.
‘O-kay.’ He spins the coaster around and takes another sip. ‘So … have you worked at the rest home long?’
‘A year.’ I wish he’d hurry up. I don’t do small talk well. ‘And you? I think your grandfather said you were at university?’
He nods, and now it’s his turn to colour up. ‘First year. I’m studying philosophy and law.’
‘You want to be a lawyer?’
‘Not really!’ A smile tweaks the corners of his mouth again. ‘It’s a compromise. Philosophy for Opa, and law ’cause Mum thinks it’s more likely to pay the bills.’
‘Is it interesting? Law?’
He shakes his head. ‘Tell you the truth, I’m not that keen on any of it right now. First-year courses seem to be three-quarters filled with lectures on how to write essays and do research. It’s not exactly gripping.’ His gaze meets mine. ‘And you?’
‘I’m still at school.’ I glance at my watch. ‘And, actually, I’m really late. I’d better go.’ I get up and he stands so quickly he overturns his chair. ‘I go straight from there to work. I probably won’t get back here until around nine.’
‘Long day,’ he says. He picks up both the cups and carries them through to the kitchen. ‘Sorry, you know. For giving you a fright.’
‘Ditto.’ I watch him leave. More to the point, I watch his skinny backside swim inside his jeans. Underneath his clothing he can’t be more than skin and bone.
BY THE TIME I make it to school I’ve missed English and most of Art History, but the good news is that Painting’s next. I make my way towards the art room, arriving just as Izzy’s niece, Roshane, heads out the door. She’s always unfailingly friendly, even though she probably thinks I’m a freak.
‘Hey! I’ve been looking for you.’ She passes me a note and rolls her eyes. ‘Mrs Friedman wants to see you asap.’
‘You sure?’ I look down at the message summoning me to the school counsellor. Oh crap. This must mean Mum’s phoned the school.
‘Afraid so.’ She grins. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been naughty?’ She almost sounds approving.
‘Never trust the quiet ones!’
Now she laughs. ‘I hear you, sister.’ Pats me on the arm. ‘Good luck.’
‘I’m gonna need it.’
Mrs Friedman ushers me into her office with the kind of smile that’s meant to reassure me. I’m sure she knows the stigma if I’m spotted coming in or out.
‘Thanks, Tara. We’ve not met before, have we?’ I shake my head. ‘Please call me Sandy. I’m not much into formality.’ It’s stating the obvious, especially as she always dresses like a teenager herself. Today she’s wearing black leggings and a floaty pink baby-doll dress. Mum has a saying for women like her: You can’t make spring chicken soup outta old chicken shit. I think she looks okay, just a bit try-hard. Her sleeves are rolled up to show off Angelina Jolie-inspired tattoos. Such a waste of effort — if you’re going to mark your skin for life, at least make the design something worthwhile. I’d have a sunflower. Or a butterfly for Van.
I take the seat Sandy offers me and wait for her to speak. When Van died I was still at my old school. They brought a counsellor in then, freaking, I suppose, because I wouldn’t talk. And I mean not at all. My words had turned to stone. I didn’t have the energy to heave them up — and if I had, I doubt I could’ve got them past the barbed-wire block inside my throat. Eventually this woman made me write a goodbye letter to Van. It helped — until she showed the bloody thing to Mum. I’d opened up my heart; written to Van as if she was still here. I can’t recall it all now, except for one short phrase that sticks: Please don’t leave me in this prison all alone.
You’d have thought I’d called the Pope a paedophile the way Mum exploded when she read that. Actually, I wish I had. At least I would have understood what she did next. She tore up my letter, right there in front of me. Are you trying to wind me up to ninety, you ungrateful little chiseller?
‘So, Tara, is there anything you’d like to share? Any problems? Stresses? Are things all right at home?’
‘Why did you want to see me?’ Rule One in my survival guide: never, under any circumstances, give anything away unless you have no choice.
‘Bella — Ms Romano — was concerned.’
Ms R? ‘Then you haven’t heard from Mum?’ Stupid. Too late now to suck it back.
‘No … why? Should I have?’
I shake my head, then stop, worried it’ll look too emphatic. ‘No. I just wondered.’ My arms are crossed defensively across my chest. I drop them to my sides, trying to look natural. The tragic part is that I’m hurt Mum hasn’t called to check if I’m okay. How pathetic is that, hoping that she’d care?
‘Ms Romano said you painted quite a disturbing picture yesterday. She’s worried that you’re not yourself.’
This is about the painting? ‘Yeah, it kind of disturbed me too. But here’s the thing with art: you start to paint and something takes you over, guides your hand. You don’t know what the outcome will be until the end.’
She stares me straight in the eye. ‘Tell me, Tara, are you thinking of taking your own life?’
‘What?’ I laugh, though it has a sharp, false ring. ‘Of course not.’ There’s a little whisper in my head. Really? Who would care?
Sandy’s close scrutiny brings me out in a sweat. I wipe the beads off my top lip, can’t meet her eye. She reaches behind her, to her desk, and passes me a small glossy comic book.
‘I want you to read this and if you find that you’re having dark thoughts I want you to promise me that you’ll seek help.’ She flips the pages over as it lies in my hands and taps the final page. ‘There’s a number here you can call. Youthline. Or, of course, you can come back and talk it through with me.’
I start to rise. ‘Thanks, Sandy. I’m sure I’ll—’
‘No, sorry, Tara. I mean it. I want you to promise me now, before you go.’
A promise seems so binding. That little voice whispers no, no, no. ‘Okay, sure. I promise.’ I stand up. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Of course!’ She walks me to the door, her hand cupping my back. ‘You’re a very smart girl, Tara. Extraordinarily talented. Hold on to that — and know that there are people who care about you very much.’
I nod, feeling tears well up, then practically sprint away before her kindness further salts my wounds.
But as I make my way back to the art room, anger takes root. It’s easy for her to say that stuff; it’s her job. I doubt she’d make that statement with such certainty if she really knew what I’ve been dealing with at home. And what I’ve done to Dad. But how the hell could I explain? Adults never listen when you try. She’d think I was exaggerating, telling petulant teenage lies.
Ms Romano is cleaning brushes at the back of the art room. I raise my eyebrows to acknowledge her but walk past. What am I supposed to say? It’s nice she cares — I truly believe she does — but if she finds out I’m not staying at home she’ll interfere. And given Mum doesn’t give a toss, what good would it do? She’d be furious I’d showed her up — she’d make me pay … and pay. I’m sick of shelling out apologies and doing extra chores. I’m tired, and though I know she’s tired too, for once I want to put my own needs first. How radical, I hear Van drawl inside my ear. Beware the little worm who turned!
Inside the storeroom my painting has been faced towards the wall. I prop it back onto the easel, wincing as I see it with fresh eyes. Okay, it is a bit extreme. Vincent said the dreamer sometimes falls into a pit and this pit is a
bout as deep as I have ever been. It’s spooky looking at this tiny piece of hell and knowing that there’s more lurking inside. It’s festering there, a thick, toxic soup of throwaway lines, slaps and insults, years and years of tightly controlled conditional love.
The irony of Ms Romano’s worry and Sandy’s care is that you’d think they’d want me to express it; get it out. Maybe that’s it! Maybe I have to climb down to the very bottom of the pit and meet the Devil face to face. Wasn’t that what the Professor said? The truth has such explosive power that one day it will blow? Maybe it’s the only way to really set me free. Screw everyone tiptoeing around me here. I’ll sort it on my own.
I pack up all my paints and brushes, charcoals and blank canvases. Fold my easel. Carefully balance the two soft-skinned Van Gogh-inspired paintings against the pile. I scrawl the Professor’s address on a piece of paper and tape it to the easel, then go out and brave Ms R head-on.
She’s helping Sarah Gordon with a wire sculpture. ‘Tara. How are you today?’ Her smile is slightly sheepish.
‘I’m fine.’ I force an answering smile. ‘Though I wonder if I could ask a big favour?’
I cringe at the pleasure on her face. ‘Of course! What can I help you with, m’dear?’
‘Family friends have said that I can use their studio to paint. I thought I’d take them up on it this weekend. I wondered if you’d mind dropping my gear around this afternoon. I’ve only got my bike.’
‘Not a problem. Just tell me where to go.’
‘I’ve left the address with my gear. There’s no one home, but if you could just leave it by the front door that would be really great.’
‘That’s fine. I’m glad to help.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I appreciate it.’ This, at least, I can say with real conviction. I just hope she forgives me for twisting the truth. ‘If it’s okay with you, I thought I might leave early — I need to ride over to the hospital to check on Dad.’
‘How’s he going?’
‘Good.’ I need to keep this light and breezy now, not trigger any alarms.
‘Okay … though just this once. I can’t have my star pupil wagging class!’ Beside her, Sarah Gordon fires me a moody scowl.
‘Thanks, Ms R — you’re a real champ.’ I hightail it after that, hoping I’ve convinced her everything’s okay. When did you get so deceitful, little T? Careful or you’ll grow to like it.
AFTER I’VE LUGGED MY gear to Ms R’s car and laid the drying paintings on her back seat, I bike over to the hospital, my stomach grumbling to remind me I don’t have any lunch. I’ll wait till I get to work. Thank god Izzy doesn’t mind if I cadge the odd leftover.
As soon as I walk through the hospital doors I feel nervous. Even though logically I know she won’t be here this time of day, I’m worried I’ll run into Mum. I’ve nothing to say to her, though I can guarantee she’ll have a lot to say to me. I reach Dad’s room without a problem and the nurse from yesterday greets me with a smile. ‘No change,’ she says. ‘But that’s all good. It means the medication’s holding any further seizures at bay.’
I sit down next to Dad and take his hand. His eyes are open but they don’t react. ‘It’s me, Dad. Tara. If you can hear me squeeze my hand.’ Nothing.
I once watched a TV psychic tell this woman her mother was sending messages from the other side. The woman shook her head, saying her mother was still alive, though in a coma. The psychic insisted her mother’s spirit had already ‘crossed’. It was actually quite freaky; she seemed to know some very personal things. Maybe Dad’s gone ahead too, shedding his broken shell. Perhaps he’s turning cartwheels somewhere with Van. I almost laugh out loud. No way! Not even in fantasy.
I close my eyes and try again to dredge up one nice memory — anything to help me not hate him. It’s really hard. I keep catching tiny fragments of scenes, but as I play them forwards there’s always something at the end to sour them.
My mind keeps coming back to one particular day. I guess I’m maybe six or seven — just before Van started acting up. I was home from school and for some reason couldn’t stay with Mum, so Dad took me. It must’ve been after he lost the storeman’s job and had to take on anything he could. Truth is he had no choice: he’d fallen out with every firm who’d ever employed him. No one could be bothered with a mouthy Irish scrapper who thought he knew it all.
This day, he was fixing a gate at an old lady’s house. I remember sitting cross-legged on her front lawn, the sun streaming down to light up all the colours with a vibrancy that stays with me still. The grass was the brightest of malachite greens, bejewelled with a carpet of big yellow-faced daisies. That riot of white and yellow against the green was the kind of mix Vincent loved — something about the boldness of the colours as they played off each other. He didn’t care if his colour choices didn’t correspond with real life, so long as they reflected the depth of his emotional response. I feel that way too.
While Dad nailed up the palings I made daisy chains, crowning him with one, ecstatic when he knelt to receive it like a king. When he’d completed the fence he handed me a brush and showed me how to undercoat the strips of wood. The brush in my hand felt so familiar, so very right, and he praised me for my neatness. You’re a natural, little lady. You’re a real help to your old da. I felt the swell of pride; a warmth much stronger than the sun. He praised as rarely as my mother laughed.
After I’d helped him pack his tools away, we went inside and joined the old lady for a cup of tea. She’d stayed a few months in Belfast once and managed to pry open Dad’s usual silence on his past. I listened open-mouthed.
They spoke of favourite haunts, famous locals, the quirkiest pubs. Then the old woman asked if he’d had a happy childhood there. He’d balked a moment, but then he laughed.
‘If by happy you mean that there was love and laughter, yes there was. I was the oldest of three, and though my mammy and my da were never there, me and my brothers did okay. It was only later I saw the impact of The Troubles first-hand.’
‘Did your family lose anyone to them?’ I can remember thinking how brave she was to question him. I’d never dare, not even on this most glorious of days.
I watched his face cloud over before it turned to stone. Something dark and evil flitted across the surface of his eyes. He shook himself. Scooped me from my chair and bundled me under his arm. ‘We’d best be off now, before the missus gets wind that I’ve been skiving.’
I felt all my pleasure in the day retreat, wary now in case I did something to set him off. But once we were driving away in his old Commer van, the Pogues blaring from the rigged-up CD player, he relaxed.
When we arrived back home he cooked us soda bread farl, spreading it with lashings of butter and jam. I sprawled on his knee, sharing it off the plate with him, the butter dripping down my chin.
‘You’re a good girl, my wee Tara,’ he said, using his sandpaper finger to catch a drip. ‘You’ll be a nester like your granny, won’t you girl?’
I didn’t know what he meant, just that he was pleased with me, and that was more than enough. I leaned in against his broad chest, the bristles of his chin snaring my hair. He smelt of cigarettes and paint and sweat. I don’t think I’ve felt so secure either before or since.
That’s when Mum and Van came home, Van bouncing in after school, a typed-up sheet of paper in her hand.
‘Look, Dad, look! I wrote a story and Miss Greaves gave me two gold stars! Two, Dad! Look, right here!’ She shoved it in his face, her eyes gleaming with excitement and pride.
‘Away with you!’ He grabbed her by her extended arm, ignoring the proffered sheet, and steered her roughly to the side, out of his line of sight. Then he stood, shaking me off now like shit on his shoe. ‘Can’t you see I was resting?’ He glared over at Mum. ‘Get that bloody child under control.’
The noises of the hospital swell around me as I withdraw my hand from his. Even after all these years, I can still picture the terrible hurt etched on Van’s face, especia
lly when she’d seen me lounging on Dad’s knee. She had crumpled up the paper, threw it at him, and run crying from the room. Oh, the terrible hurt in her eyes … I felt like Judas, betraying the one person I loved the most. The shame stings me still. And something in me died that day. My heart hardened towards him. I vowed, from that point on, not to accept his favours if they excluded Van.
I leave him now, but as I cycle the busy lunchtime streets the pain lingers. It’s as if this memory has tripped a switch inside my head. I’m flooded with reminders of the many times Van’s spirit was crushed doing things I had got away with only moments before. It was the same with Mum, this strange splitting of allegiances — as though Van’s very presence prickled underneath their skins.
6
You cannot always tell what keeps you confined, what immures you, what seems to bury you, and yet you can feel those elusive bars, railings, walls. Is all this illusion, imagination? I don’t think so. And then one asks: My God! will it be for long, will it be for ever, will it be for eternity?
— VINCENT TO THEO, CUESMES, JUNE 1880
IT’S HARD TO KEEP cheerful at the rest home. Everywhere I look I am reminded of family — good and bad. Dear Nadine is sitting with her sister May, a tiny woman who clasps tightly to Nadine’s hand. She comes in every second day, even though she buses from the other side of town. To anyone who didn’t know, it might appear that Nadine doesn’t realise she’s there, staring into space as May chatters about her garden and her cat. But if you take the time to watch, you notice Nadine’s eyes swing to her face every few minutes and the dullness in her gaze softens to a loving smile. She pats May’s hand, occasionally bringing it to her lips to kiss. At times the tears stream down May’s face.
I think about the lives they have shared over the past eighty-odd years; the kind of bond that only such a long connection brings. My twelve with Van were not enough. I’ll never know the woman she might’ve been. What would she make of me now? Even more withdrawn and controlled by Mum than when she left. I hate my passivity — how could I have been so unquestioning? Well, the genie’s out of the bottle now. My head is filled with every casual insult and rejection Van endured. I’m so ashamed. I tied myself up in the act of survival and forgot the one thing Van had wished: that I would have a life. It’s trapped me now. There’s no escape.
