Dear Vincent

by Mandy Hager

  I look down at myself and it’s no wonder he finds me so repulsive: my legs too thin, my stomach hollow between jutting bones. No one’s ever wanted me. No one ever will. I wrap the towel around my head and weave my way into the bedroom to slip off my damp underwear. Stand swaying in the middle of the room, trying to muster up the will to pull on pyjamas. It’s all too hard. Instead I burrow into bed, too tired now to even cry. I close my eyes and try to banish the dirty, brazen, whorey need. I’m so ashamed.

  When he returns I pretend to sleep. I can’t face the accusation in his eyes — or the tea. My stomach has been scoured out. I enter a half-world of restless dreams. I’m the Little Match Girl from Van’s story nights, staring in at scenes I cannot hope to reach. Dad and Mum, locked in each other’s arms, yet when I step in close she’s not with Dad at all. Instead, it’s the Pope — his hands all over her as she recites Hail Marys into his silvery white hair. Now I’m at the rest home, pacing hallways with Nadine. I’ve been struck dumb; I can’t tell them that they’ve got it wrong — I’m not mad. I burst out through the courtyard door and there is Van. She’s swinging by the neck from a giant easel. I start to paint her dying image with her pooling blood. Again I flit away; hear laughter and peer in through a window at Johannes and Max. They stare straight through me. I am nothing. No one. Cast adrift. And now I’m flung into a room where Dad lies and I know with all my being he’s taking his last breaths. I grasp his hand and raise it to my lips. His eyes fly open and stare straight into mine. It’s all your fault, he says. Your fault. Yours.

  I shock awake, confused. I’m weak and nauseous, the wine still souring everything. Oh god. What if the dream’s a premonition? What if Dad is dying and I’m not there? I stagger up, panic fuelling me, and fumble into random clothes. Have to get to him. Have to say goodbye. I had no choice with Van. I don’t want to regret this too.

  As I stumble through the darkened house, I see the time: twelve twenty-two. I find my bike and start towards the hospital, wobbling and weaving like I’ve newly learnt to ride. The chill is playing havoc with my head, every rotation of the pedals pounding through it. Twice I have to retch into the gutter, but there’s nothing left inside me now except the urgency to get to Dad.

  It takes me hours and when I finally arrive my knees turn to jelly as I dismount. It’s quiet inside, no one around. The building hums like a contented hive, lift doors sliding seamlessly to let me in. Floor by floor my agitation grows. I dread what I might find. When I’m spat out into the corridor leading to Dad’s ward, I squat down to compose myself, but as I try to stand my legs give way. I hit the floor with a jarring bump, my head connecting with the wall. I release a long slow groan. Too bad. Get up. I force myself back to my feet. Lunge across the corridor and make it to the doors. They won’t budge. I try again. Rattle them. Come on, you bastards. Open up! There’s nothing for it but to knock. When no one answers I knock again more loudly, slap the glass with both my hands.

  ‘Let me in!’

  Now, at last, a stern-faced nurse approaches from inside the ward. She unlocks the door but doesn’t draw it open for me. Instead she pokes her head out through the gap. ‘What?’

  ‘I have to see Paddy McClusky!’

  ‘It’s after midnight.’ She makes to close the door. ‘Come back tomorrow.’

  ‘No! You don’t understand. He needs me. Now!’ I grab the door and tug it from her grip. I try to edge around her but she bars me with her arm.

  ‘Leave right now or I’ll call security.’

  That’s so ridiculous I laugh, my breath exhaling winey fumes. She recoils. Security? For me? ‘I had a dream,’ I say. ‘He called me here.’ My laughter’s hiccupping its way to sobs. ‘I have to say goodbye.’

  We wrestle with the door: me pulling with the full weight of my body, her holding firm with all her bureaucratic might. I glimpse another nurse behind her, who disappears. Next thing I know the lift doors swish behind me and two burly men in uniforms take hold of me, one each side.

  A bomb goes off inside my head. I start to kick and bite, doing everything to twist out of their grip. They force my arms behind my back and loom over me like I’m the ball between two scrumming All Blacks, before throwing me into the lift and sending it down. Their faces are impassive, two bulky Pacific Island guys, each two times, three times, as big as me.

  I’m silent now. Oddly, this rough and tumble has helped to clear my head. Just as well. I’m in the shit and anything I do or say now really counts. Don’t let the bastards grind you down, Van says. All very well for her, she’s not the one who’s being hauled through the building by these giant men.

  The lift doors open and they are guiding me towards the main exit when someone yells out, ‘Fraser, Ollie, wait!’ Jesus. It’s Mum. The nurses here must all be spies. Her face is stony as she hurries over.

  ‘Tara! What in God’s name have you done?’

  I stare down at my feet, nausea rising.

  ‘She was making trouble up in Seven South,’ says one of the guards.

  ‘Well, she’s my daughter.’ She spits this out as if the words are poison. ‘If it’s all right with you, I’ll handle it from here.’

  They nod and let go of me. I rub my wrists. The bandage on my arm is seeping blood and my head throbs.

  Mum waits until they disappear before dragging me over to a bench seat in the foyer. Now she fires at me: ‘You stink of booze.’

  My chest tightens. Stomach squirms. There’s no point in fighting back, just let her shoot both barrels until it’s over. I keep my gaze locked on the floor. Lying bitch.

  She shakes my shoulder, none too gently. ‘Explain yourself, damn it! This morning you slug a total stranger and now you turn up here bollixed …’

  ‘Total stranger? Then what the hell was with the kiss?’

  Red floods her face. I may’ve scored a hit but now she’ll make me pay. Her fingers leave white indents where they dig into her folded arms. She leans in so close I see the web of broken veins in her cheeks. ‘Am I not entitled to a private life?’

  ‘You’re still married to Dad.’

  ‘Come on, Tara. It’s hardly a normal situation.’

  ‘I didn’t make the rules, Mum. You’re the one who’s Catholic.’

  I feel like shit. So many lies. A tear rolls down my cheek and I slap the bloody thing away. Bad move. Now she’s registered the bandage on my arm.

  She pulls it clear, exposing my handiwork. ‘Holy Mother of Christ! What’s this?’ When I don’t respond, she claps her hands over my ears and forces up my head. I still refuse to meet her eye. ‘Did you do it? Tara? Look at me when I’m talking to you. Were you eejit enough to do this to yourself?’ My head feels like a lemon in a press.

  I flick her hands away and stand up. ‘What would you care?’ I say it cruel and cold, then meet her eyes at last. Let her read exactly what her lies have done.

  She winces — I’m sure she does. But I don’t wait to find out if I’m wrong. I balance myself against the wall to steady the dizziness, then lurch towards the exit doors.

  ‘Tara, wait!’ She runs after me. Grabs my shoulder. ‘That wound needs dressing.’

  I shrug her off, keep making for the doors.

  ‘Don’t you dare walk out on me again …’

  The doors slide open with a sigh. I’m out and on my bike before I dare to look around. She’s pressed against the foyer window, her face deathly pale. She won’t come after me; would never leave the building when there’s a ward to watch.

  I’m so unnerved I don’t notice where I’m riding till I’m almost home. Inside our house, I walk from room to room. It’s so barren after Max’s place, the furniture threadbare and scratched. No paintings on the wall. No warmth. I’d burn it down except for the memories of Van. I go into her room and lie spread-eagled on the rotting carpet, wishing for her with every cell inside my body. Even her ghost would do. If you’re out there, Van, please come to me now. Nothing answers, except a scrap of song. An old ballad that Dad used t
o croon drunkenly with his mates. I sing it now for Van, my voice dipping and rising through our empty house.

  I am stretched on your grave and will lie there forever,

  If your hands were in mine, I’d be sure they’d not sever,

  My apple tree, my brightness, ’tis time we were together,

  For I smell of the earth and am worn by the weather.

  When my family thinks that I’m safe in my bed,

  From night until morning I am stretched at your head.

  Calling out to the air with tears hot and wild,

  My grief for the girl that I loved as a child.

  The priests and the friars approach me in dread,

  Because I still love you, my love, and you’re dead.

  And still would be your shelter through rain and through storm

  For with you in the cold ground I cannot sleep warm.

  8

  There is much evil in the world and in ourselves, terrible things.

  — VINCENT TO THEO, AMSTERDAM, 30 MAY 1877

  THE RIDE BACK TO Max’s house helps clear my head. I sleep till near on midday, waking groggy and exhausted, dry-mouthed, and with a headache I suspect is going to haunt me all day. It serves me right. I don’t know how people drink like that and still hold down a job, a life.

  The good news is it’s Sunday: the one day a good portion of the residents are visited or taken out. It eases the load of entertaining and soothes some of the lonely souls. The afternoon makes way for evening without a hitch.

  Max returns from an outing well after dinner, just as I’m prepping my other oldies for bed. I leave him until last, mulling over my apology while I lift Cedric on and off the loo — a good distraction from the stink.

  Once I’m free, I tap on Max’s door. He’s still in his wheelchair, eyes closed as he conducts what’s playing on the radio. A piano concerto — maybe Chopin. He’s the best.

  ‘Hiya. I’m sorry I took off yesterday. I think I was in shock.’ I sit down on the corner of his bed and finger the delicate edelweiss embroidery on his spread.

  He turns the music down and takes my hand. His lips compress when he sees the bandage on my arm. ‘I wish to tell you a story, Tara. Do you have time?’

  I nod, caught between defensiveness and curiosity.

  He runs his fingers along the armrest of his chair, then taps it twice. ‘All right. Here we go … When the Nazis entered Austria many of my relatives tried to flee. Those born with Jewish blood, like my dear father, either attempted to escape or killed themselves to save their loved ones from the taint. My uncle fled to Argentina with his small son. He left my Aunt Franhilde in Vienna to carry on the family business.’

  ‘That’s awful. Why leave her?’

  ‘She was born Catholic so they thought she would be safe. And she was — except the war made life very hard for those remaining. She was forced to take on contracts from the Nazis in order to survive and she did well. She kept the business up and running until the war came to an end.’ He shifts his chair, releasing my hand to rub his face, sighs. ‘When my uncle and cousin returned she was ecstatic. She’d paid a heavy price by staying back, especially when she had to watch so many others dragged off to the camps.’

  ‘She must have been incredibly brave.’

  He nods. ‘She was.’ For a moment he stares into the past, emotion crumbling his chin. ‘The trouble was my Uncle Tobias learnt how Franhilde saved the business. He was so ashamed he couldn’t live with it. He took his life.’

  ‘He killed himself? You’re kidding me? After everything she went through to protect him? That’s so unfair.’

  ‘People said she’d been a sympathiser — thousands were implicated in Nazi crimes. My cousin Sigmund stood by her at first. But he found out the German factory overseer had forced himself on her — and he took that hard. It festered in him. One day he tracked this fellow down and shot him dead. Then he shot Franhilde. Then himself.’

  ‘Oh my god! That’s terrible.’

  ‘Terrible? Yes. But tragic too. Instead of seeking help to give his pain and hurt a voice, he let it become a crushing force.’ He swallows hard. ‘Three more lives wasted to the cult of hate.’

  Heat floods my face. I spring to my feet, both angry and ashamed. ‘Look, Max, I appreciate what you’re saying. But you don’t understand the hypocrisy—’

  ‘Tara, my dear. Sit down. Sit down.’ He pats the bed. ‘What I’m saying is you’ve suffered enough loss already. Don’t shoot down the last member of your family because your mother’s found some comfort to help her bear her lot.’

  How dare he lecture me when he has no idea about the past? ‘She’s lied and lied. She drove Van out for seeking comfort — Mum and Dad made her life total hell. And mine. We were never good enough … Jesus, I tried. But they made us feel like we’d ruined their lives. They said they came here to protect us. What a joke. They were the only ones who ever caused us pain.’

  ‘To err is human; to forgive divine.’

  I shrug that off. ‘When they emigrated Mum and Dad gave up any chance we had of family — even when Van went back, she didn’t belong.’ My pounding hangover has flared. I’m not sure I’m making any sense. ‘I’ll never forgive them for what they did to her. Why should I?’

  ‘All I’m trying to say is look below the surface, Tara. We’re all the product of our upbringings, the gifts as well as pain. Some people choose to fight the difficulties head-on — like poor Franhilde — while the weaker of us run away. But believe me, Tara, that running causes just as much torment to us as it does to those who chose to stay.’

  I’m not sure if he’s referring to himself, his aunt or Mum and Dad. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Simply this: all life is suffering. One way or the other, damage attaches to us all. In the end it’s how we deal with it — or don’t — that makes us who we are. Now, we can let it poison us, and through us the ones we love, or we can grow from it. The choice is ours.’

  I need to end this now. I don’t want to argue but I’m too tired to be harangued about my unforgiving heart. ‘My shift is nearly over. I’d better get you into bed.’

  ‘Indeed. Of course.’

  It’s clear I’ve disappointed him but, really, what else is there to say? I help him through his toileting, then tuck him into bed. The sight of his foreshortened legs beneath the sheets is heart-breaking. He’s only trying to help.

  ‘Sleep well,’ I say, and brush a kiss onto his tissue-paper cheek.

  He says nothing until I’m nearly out the door. ‘We live in the middle of things which have all been destined to die.’

  I look back around. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It’s from Seneca, the Roman philosopher forced by Nero to slit his own wrists. It’s said his final words were these: Beware the mindless wilderness that lurks forever in the darkness of men’s greed.’ Here he taps the print of Vincent’s Starry Night, which hangs above his head. ‘But see, above, how heaven’s countless sparks illuminate the night like scattered seed. See, slowly rising, as my blood is drawn, the sun of understanding in the crimson dawn.’

  Our eyes meet for a second … two … three … four … and his implore me to consider this. Yet they’re twinkling too. The devious old bugger already knows I will. He understands my thirst, knows that art in all its forms has me in its grip.

  I smile. ‘Night, Max. I hope you sleep well.’

  ‘And you, Tara. And you.’

  Just before I close the door I whisper, ‘Thanks.’

  AFTER WORK I MAKE my way to Roshane’s house, regretting I agreed to go. But the desire to spend an hour or so with a potential friend, even in my seedy shape, is overpowering. It’s far too long since I made an effort with anyone from school.

  Her house is in a street that’s mainly filled with old state houses, hers a rundown semi-detached that perches in an overgrown garden with a scraggy lawn. Thumping music greets me and when my knock goes unanswered, I make my way inside. Cigarette smoke hits like tear gas and it�
��s clear now this is not a quiet get-together over an illicit wine. The place is packed with kids from school, the cool brigade — not what I expected on a Sunday night. Bloody hell, I haven’t even brushed my hair. God knows how long they’ve been here but the place is in a mess. Empty bottles pile up in corners and, besides the cigarettes, there’s a strong waft of dope.

  I’m just about to edge back out the door when Roshane catches sight of me.

  ‘Tara! I can’t believe you came!’ She’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat, all glammed up in sparkly makeup and a micro-mini barely deserving of the title ‘skirt’. She grabs me by the hand and tows me further in. ‘Hey guys,’ she yells above the pumping stereo, ‘you all know Tara? Make her feel at home!’

  Stoned, drunken eyes turn to me, some widening in surprise. I shove the bottle of wine into her hand and, in return, she presses a filled paper cup into mine. I sniff the orange liquid but can’t tell if it’s laced with alcohol or just plain juice. When I swig some, it’s not too bad. I make my way over to an empty space in the corner of the overcrowded kitchen and lean against the wall to watch all the one-upmanship and posturing. I’m an alien anthropologist, here to take notes. Roshane leaves me to it, though twice appearing out of nowhere to top up my cup. Whatever I’m drinking helps calm my nerves, if not the hangover still crouching in my gut. The music pulses through me like an extra heart.

  A group of five girls from my English class form a tight huddle around me.

  ‘Wow, I didn’t expect to see you here,’ says Laura French.

  ‘Me neither,’ I say. There’s an awkward pause so I blurt: ‘I’ve kind of run away from home.’ Where did that come from?

  ‘No shit? Good for you,’ says Sally Jackson.

  Next thing they’re probing me for all the messy details. I haltingly tell them about Dad’s stroke, the house, work and then the fight with Mum. But not about Van. I pause to sip my drink. What’s in this stuff? I haven’t talked this much for years. They ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’, but thankfully the heat soon goes off me. It turns out their lives aren’t so great either: Sally has a step-dad she doesn’t trust; Chrissy’s father’s both alcoholic and unemployed; Joanne’s mum just finished chemo for breast cancer. I nod and look sympathetic, but eventually this information overload starts to make me feel claustrophobic. I mumble that I need the loo and break away. Laura pats my arm as I leave.