Dear Vincent

by Mandy Hager

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t help with the dishes.’

  ‘There were dishes?’

  Now it’s my turn to smile, though it’s cut short by a yawn. ‘Okay. I’d better go.’

  ‘Dinner tomorrow? Now I’m a self-indulgent loafer, I need a goal.’

  My heart kerplunks. ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  I’m just about to hang up the phone when Johannes speaks again. ‘Hey Tara …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fish burgers, remember?’ He chortles and hangs up.

  NEXT MORNING I’M WOKEN early by insistent rapping on the sun-porch door. I drag on my dressing gown and stumble out, hoping it’s Johannes.

  It’s Mum.

  My feet itch to run. But there’s a chance she could be here with news of Dad. Bad news. Guilt’s foremost in my mind as I unlock the door.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  She’s still in her uniform and she looks like hell: the circles underneath her eyes so black and deep they could be carved. ‘Can I come in?’

  I hold open the door and stand aside. She doesn’t go straight through to the lounge, instead hovers in the sun porch, staring at my work. An invisible hand squeezes my guts. She points to the Medusa portrait and clears her throat. My heart speeds up.

  ‘Is that really how you see me?’

  Her voice is overly controlled. I wait for the barb that always follows. She’s staring at me too intently. I feel compelled to shrug, but nothing’s going to make me speak. I’ve walked into her traps before.

  Now she fumbles in her pocket and retrieves a piece of paper. She holds it out. ‘Here. It’s all I’ve got. I’ve been putting some aside for funeral costs.’ It’s a cheque, made out to me.

  I take it with a shaking hand, half expecting her to snatch it back at the last moment. Her fingers press against mine. Three thousand, six hundred and fifty-eight dollars.

  Way to go, Miss T!

  But there has to be a catch. And there is. I’m not sure if her saving for Dad’s funeral, and me then spending the money, is tragic or disgusting — or both.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘No change. They’re going to keep him in.’ This is when she’d usually go at me — and the fact she doesn’t gives me the total shits. I don’t know what she’s up to. I feel like a mouse trapped in a corner by a feral cat.

  If I take the money and Dad dies, she’ll punish me for selfishness. If I give it back, she’ll say that I’m ungrateful and will never offer to help again.

  Guilt wins. I shove the cheque back into the pocket of her uniform. ‘If it’s for Dad, then you should save it.’

  She thrusts it back at me. ‘If he dies before I’ve saved some more, you can pay me back.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘You need to pull yourself together or you’ll fail school. If that means sorting out your obsession, it’s best you do it now.’

  ‘She was my sister, Mum. I loved her. Is it obsessive to want to know how and where she died?’

  ‘You know where she died. What you really want to do is go and wallow in it. What you’ll discover is that wallowing won’t bring her back.’

  ‘I think you’ll find the term’s not wallowing but grieving. You know? That thing that normal people do when they lose someone they love?’

  ‘Don’t pull your superior act with me.’ Out comes the wagging finger. ‘Normal people work their arses off to feed their kids and pay the bills. They don’t have time for playing princess in some stranger’s house because their precious little feelings have been hurt.’

  I wave the cheque at her, pinching it between my thumb and index finger as if it’s infectious. ‘I don’t want your blood money—’

  ‘And I don’t want it back.’ She turns and stalks away but I’m betting she’s not finished. Sure enough, as she’s about to round the corner she stops. ‘There’s only one condition …’ Ah ha! Here it comes. ‘Make sure the flights are flexible. If you want to come home quickly, you need to know you can.’

  I’m so gobsmacked I plonk down on the doorstep, still clutching the cheque. Is the condition a nod to Van’s exiled predicament or to Dad’s death? Whatever the answer, I think my mother may have just done something almost nice.

  I feel extra guilty now. I go back inside and ring home to leave a message on the answerphone. ‘It’s me. I just want to say thank you. It means a lot.’ It’s so much easier when she’s not on the other end.

  After I’m dressed I rush straight over to the bank in case she changes her mind. Next I cycle to the hospital. It’s too long since I last saw Dad.

  THE WARD IS HUMMING with its morning rush. I find a doctor and his students at Dad’s bedside — he’s not responding as the doctor pokes and prods. He’s as still as death, the only sound the sucking of the respirator and the mechanical beep of a machine that feeds him something through a drip. His skin has lost its elasticity. It’s ashen — really ashen — like river stones bleached by the sun.

  I tell the doctor who I am. ‘How is he?’

  ‘It could be days, or weeks, or months. It’s very hard to tell.’

  ‘But then he can come home?’

  He regards me with a mix of sympathy and impatience. His minions glance away. ‘He won’t be going home.’ He checks his watch. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me …’ They shuffle over to the next patient, and close the curtains around the bed.

  That’s it then. No beating around the bush. He’s really going to die. The end. Kaput. I don’t know how I feel. Regret, I guess, that there’ll be no more opportunities for him to change. But, underneath, the biggest part of me still hates him over what happened to Van. I can’t deny it. And if he died while I was gone, would I regret it? That’s the million-dollar question.

  But what do I have to look forward to if I stay? A few more weeks at Max’s, then I either have to find a flat or go back home. And Van would still haunt me. Taunt me. I have to piece her jigsaw back together if I’m ever going to have a life.

  I’m going to go. I’m going to go! I have no other choice.

  I leave Dad to his slow decline and wait out by the lifts. I’m thinking about passports, tickets and leave from work when the lift doors open and Brendon steps out. He’s in a uniform. An orderly. At the sight of me he nearly wheels his patient into a wall.

  I duck inside and slam my hand on the button. Come on, come on. My heart is thrashing like a landed fish. How cosy for them all — they really can have a threesome by Dad’s bed. That’s sick.

  I make it down to the main atrium, charging for the door, when I hear my name. ‘Tara, wait!’

  I keep walking but he catches up.

  ‘Please. Just hold on for one moment.’

  I spin around and eyeball him. He’s very ordinary, though if I’m really honest his eyes are kind. God damn. I fold my arms across my chest. Stand my ground.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know how hard this must all be for you …’

  ‘You think?’

  He nods, not rising to my bait. ‘Of course. It must be an awful shock.’

  ‘Which bit would you be referring to? My dead sister? My father? Or perhaps the fact my mother’s screwing an orderly at work?’

  ‘Never at work,’ he says. ‘Though you have every right to be angry—’

  ‘How very kind.’

  ‘I want you to know that I’ll never come between you — you’ll always be Kathleen’s top priority.’

  My mouth hangs open while I take this in. Then I start to laugh. And laugh and laugh. And I thought I was mad.

  He smiles nervously. ‘I have a daughter too. She’s nearly twelve. They make you feel very vulnerable — always scared someone will harm them.’

  I’ve had enough of this. I don’t want to know about his cheating life. He clearly has a wife as well.

  ‘Protect her from Mum then.’

  I push out through the doors and try to read the combination on my bike lock. Everything’s blurred. So that’s how she’s goin
g to play it, eh? Send me off, like she did Van, and set up a whole new family — a fresh ready-made daughter she can screw over too. Poor kid.

  At least this settles it. No point in feeling guilty about using up her hard-earned cash. If she wants me out of the picture, I’m happy to oblige.

  I head over to Twilight House to see about leave. My manager says all she needs is two weeks’ notice and I can take three weeks — one paid.

  There’s still ample time before my shift starts, so I find a local travel agent and research tickets, passports, all the rest. It’s like I’m acting in a play, spouting lines but not believing them. Me go to Ireland? For the last few years the furthest I have strayed from home is the other side of town. I can’t think too much about the actual travel or I’ll freak right out.

  Back at work, Nadine is gone. She died at one this morning and her bed’s already stripped, belongings crammed in boxes, all trace of the tireless prowling woman with the ready smile gone. No time for lingering goodbyes at this place. By tomorrow some new inmate will take up residence here. Vincent was right to welcome that bullet out of the blue. No protracted sad old age. There has to be some kind of balance, though. Van’s life was too short; Nadine’s too long. Vincent vacillating between love of life one day and the urge to snuff it out the next. And, of course, there’s Dad, stuck in the twilight zone … I bet, after the reality of his stroke hit home, he wished for a stray bullet in the gut. Would I have pulled the trigger if he could’ve asked? Dangerous question — especially now I know the truth.

  As the end of my shift draws near, my nerves about another dinner with Johannes balloon out of all proportion. Last night his efforts transformed the meal from a friendly late-night snack into a — what? Was it a date? Designed to impress me? Or is this how people like him dine all the time? These last few years I’ve eaten on my own, the only shared meals spent shovelling food into my father’s unresponsive mouth.

  I don’t know how to act. I don’t want to appear naive or seem too keen. The saddest part of Vincent’s life was not his distance from his family, his mental struggles or even the way most people rubbished his work. It was the way he built up fantasies about women. He took any scrap of kindness as a sign they returned his feelings. He pined for love. I don’t want to be so needy.

  Van was the same with her one-night stands. While Vincent burnt his hand in candles, slashed his ear, beat his back with walking sticks to win hearts, Van forfeited her self-esteem. I saw the scars. Saw her self-hatred expressed as slashes on her inner thighs. And even though I was still stupidly young and innocent, I somehow knew it was the only way she could feel in control. Was her suicide the final coup? Not weakness but her last defining message to the world? Fuck you, my life is mine to take …

  What scares me is how well I understand the urge.

  12

  You will understand what I tell you, that to work and be an artist one needs love. At least someone who strives for feeling in his work must first feel and live with his heart.

  — VINCENT TO THEO, ETTEN, NOVEMBER 1881

  TONIGHT JOHANNES’ FLAT REEKS of freshly grilled cheese and he confesses he’s resorted to one of his favourites: home-made pizza topped with salmon, spinach and cream cheese.

  ‘The base is bought,’ he says, as if this will shock me, while I’m still amazed that he can cook at all. He’s wearing a tee-shirt the exact cobalt blue Vincent called ‘divine’, which draws out all the subtle variations in his hypnotic eyes.

  ‘What did you do today?’ I ask. He’s flagged the fancy table settings too, thank goodness. We’re sitting side by side on the sofa, plates balanced on our knees.

  ‘I had a long and gruelling call from Mum. I think it’s fair to say she’s not too pleased with me …’

  ‘Enough to stop you?’ A filament of stringy cheese hangs from his chin. I reach over and pick it off before I think, too used to feeding Dad.

  ‘Thanks.’ He wipes his chin with the back of his hand. ‘All gone?’ I nod. ‘Yeah, well I thought she’d go ballistic, but when I told her Dad was fuming she got all indignant and started to defend my rights. Works every time!’

  ‘And did he? Your dad, I mean. Did you tell him too?’

  ‘Not yet.’ He grins and I can see the shadow of the cheeky kid he must have been at five or six. ‘Sometimes her attitude to Dad — well, all men except Opa, really — comes in handy.’

  ‘She doesn’t have a boyfriend or a partner then?’

  ‘No one regular. She likes her independence.’

  ‘And you?’ I hold very still, every sense on alert. ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

  ‘Nah. I was dumped last year by this girl I’d known since Intermediate.’

  ‘Poor you.’

  He shrugs. ‘I was gutted — but, actually, now I feel relieved. I didn’t realise how bored I was. She wanted to talk about the bloody Kardashians, while I wanted to discuss the moral philosophy of Immanuel Kant.’

  I laugh, not sure what to say. Immanuel Who? Time to change the subject. ‘I’m going to Ireland. Mum turned up with a cheque this morning.’

  ‘That’s great! Have you decided when?’

  So I can be there for July 12th. ‘Not sure. I don’t want to desert Spinoza if you’re gone as well.’ When I practised this line in the shower it sounded way less obvious, but how else do I ask about his plans without giving away how much it hurts?

  ‘God, don’t worry about the cat. The neighbours will look after him — or he can go into a cattery. Either way, your trip is way more important.’

  I give in. I’m not cut out for boy–girl games. ‘So what’s your schedule?’

  ‘I’ll probably head over to Mum in about two weeks. She’s going to look into some traditional artisan courses over there.’

  ‘Oh wow. So you’re going to stay and study there?’ Yep, hope is shit.

  ‘Maybe. I’d rather stay here. I don’t want to leave Opa on his own.’ He finishes the last mouthful of his pizza. ‘Tell me about your sister. Did you get on well?’

  I clatter my plate onto the coffee table, taken aback.

  ‘No, look, sorry … you don’t have to say. It must be really hard.’

  ‘It’s okay. It’s just that no one ever asks.’ And what do I start with? ‘Well … she was five years older than me. I always looked up to her.’

  ‘That painting downstairs … is that you or her?’

  ‘Her.’ The pizza starts to swill. ‘I don’t look anything like her. She was beautiful — and clever.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘Oh, right. So the fact that you share the same eyes, nose, mouth, hair, neck and brain is mere coincidence? Or that your mum does too?’

  ‘My mum?’

  ‘Come on! I bet she looked exactly like you when she was young.’

  I’m bristling now. I force the words through my teeth. ‘My mother is a total bitch.’

  ‘Hey, I believe you! But that doesn’t mean at your age she wasn’t a total stunner.’

  Stunner? I stand up and prowl over to the window seat, pretend to be fascinated by something outside. The trouble is all I can see is my own reflection, and now Johannes comes into view. I can’t look round. I’m stuck here. Petrified.

  I startle as he runs his fingers down my arm. His mirror double bends down over me and I feel his breath warm just below my ear. Jes-us. My knees may well give way.

  ‘Can I kiss you?’ he asks my window twin. I ache to turn around.

  I can’t. His body heat is at my back. The memory of my drunken kiss is so shaming — yet at the same time so enticing — I don’t know what to do. No alcohol to blame now if I get this wrong.

  ‘Tara?’

  Oh god, I’ve knocked his confidence. I can hear it in his voice.

  Do it! Van hisses, and Vincent backs her up: Love and love and love some more! But then he contradicts himself: Painting and fucking don’t go together, it softens the brain. And now Mum chimes in one of her priceless sayings about Van: You’d shake her and the
cocks fell out …

  Shut up!

  I turn and stare woodenly into his chest. He tips my chin back with one long finger and lowers his head. Our lips meet so lightly I find myself straining up onto my toes. But then he dives in, his mouth hot and silken as he gathers me into his arms. When I come up for air I stumble backwards, place my hand between us, on his chest. His heart applauds enthusiastically.

  ‘I should go now.’ My insides may well be melting but I can’t take the risk. The one brain cell still set on logic knows it’s not a good idea. I’m way too screwy right now. I’d stuff things up. Bullshit! You’re scared.

  ‘I’d never do anything you didn’t want …’ Behind his words is a plea to stay.

  It’s so tempting — so tempting — but I shake my head. ‘I’d better not.’ Every Catholic propagandist I’ve ever heard now cheers inside my head. Van sighs. Always the goodie-good.

  He accepts this so calmly I’m not sure how I feel as he walks me to the door. ‘I’m driving Opa to the dentist first thing, then out for lunch. You want to come tomorrow night? I’ve still got one more meal I know how to cook!’

  ‘You sure?’

  He gives me his lovely crooked grin. ‘What do you think?’ He leans over and drops a butterfly kiss onto my nose. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  Later, I lie awake, willing my body to relax. My skin is over-sensitive: each time I move my pyjamas caress me and I imagine it’s his hand. My nipples strain up, tingling. I press them with my palms. This only makes the yearning worse, and dredges up Sister Caterina’s frenzied lectures at my old school, declaring self-pleasuring evil long before we knew what the hell she meant.

  I groan and roll onto my stomach — but the kiss replays until the aching tension drives me from the bed. It’s coming up to midnight, no light or muffled sound at all upstairs. I pull on my dressing gown and make a cup of tea. Spinoza bunts against my shins and yowls. I cave in and top up the biscuits in his bowl.

  Next I light two of the seven candles in the menorah that sits on Max’s dining table and carry it through to the sun porch — electric lights would kill the mood. I secure a new canvas to the easel and squeeze cobalt blue and ultramarine onto my palette, forget-me-not violet, and the yellows and ochres Vincent said reminded him of crusty bread. Black, white, Naples yellow, orange, terra sienna, sepia and umber too. I know which painting I’m going to reinvent: it flashed into my head for one short moment when we kissed. The Siesta. Johannes’ favourite from the Musée d’Orsay.