by Mandy Hager
‘Life sucks,’ I say. ‘Then sucks some more. I’ve got all my stuff in my bag back at your place. I’d better go and ring the airline now.’
‘Could you fly direct from here?’
I shake my head. ‘I want to see Shanaye and Royan before I go. Anyway, most of my luggage is there.’
We travel down the lift in silence. Walk directly to the metro and arrive back at the apartment in a state of gloom.
I phone through to the airline and they’re helpful once I tell them why. There’s a flight leaving Belfast at ten forty-five tonight; the next is not until tomorrow. I choose tonight. I don’t want Dad dying while Mum’s on her own. Apart from anything else, I’d never hear the end of it.
I call Shanaye and she offers to bring my luggage to the airport so we can say goodbye. The thought of leaving them so soon is devastating — already they feel more like family than the one at home.
We head off to the airport with an hour and a half to spare. Johannes finds a secluded booth in one of the bars and orders coffees. We sit here with our arms entwined, heads resting cheek to cheek.
‘I’ll be home in a couple of months,’ he says. ‘Meanwhile I promise to find some internet access, somehow, where I’m staying. You promise you’ll message every day.’ He reaches over for one of the serviettes and writes a number down. ‘Ring me if he dies — please — or leave a message with Mum.’
I tuck the serviette into my bag. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘You’d better bloody be.’
My flight is called and he bundles me into his arms.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’ll never, ever forget this. These have been the best two days of my entire life.’
‘Me too.’ He kisses me and when he pulls away his eyes are red. ‘Good luck with your dad,’ he says. ‘And mum.’
I don’t have the strength to drag this out. I grab my backpack and hurry off, then sit in a surreal daze for the entire flight.
AT BELFAST AIRPORT, ROYAN and Shanaye and all four kids are waiting with my luggage. I shout us all a cup of tea and then withdraw a few hundred pounds from my savings.
I press the notes into Shanaye’s hand. ‘Take this. As it is, I owe you guys for the rest of my life.’
‘You owe us nothing. We’ve been so happy to have you here.’
‘I hope you know I’m coming back. When I’m finished studying I’m going to paint my way around the whole of Ireland!’
‘Now that’s a grand idea!’ Uncle Royan winks. ‘And bring that nice romantic boy!’
Helen tugs at my hand. ‘Will your daddy go up to live with Jesus?’
Shanaye rolls her eyes. ‘Her daddy will finally have some peace, my love.’
‘Like our Van?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Just like our Van.’
They call my flight and we all start to cry at once. I never thought I’d feel so close to them this fast. I hug them one by one and promise to keep in touch. As I’m about to walk away Uncle Royan pulls an envelope from his pocket.
‘This is for Paddy, Tara darlin’. Lay it to rest with him. And tell Kathleen we send our love.’
‘I love you guys.’
‘I know, sweetheart. We love you too.’
I walk through the boarding gate, bawling like a kid. It’s not until I’m settled in my seat that I take out the envelope and look inside. It’s a photo of Dad and Royan with their older brother Billy. Dad’s maybe thirteen or fourteen. Arms slung around each other, the three McCluskys grin into the camera like they own the world.
On the first leg of the journey, after a quick switch at Heathrow, I sleep — only waking to eat the meals and use the loo. We disembark at Los Angeles for nearly two hours, shut inside a holding pen like sheep, before the final slog. With nothing else to distract me I try to process the last two weeks. I’m not sure how to broach it all with Mum, whether she’ll even talk to me. I’m guessing she’ll be defensive; must know Shanaye and Royan were bound to talk.
What trips me up each time I plan potential conversations with her is not her blatant abuse of Van — I think I understand that now to some extent. But why all the shit she flings at me? The lack of any warmth? Hell, for the last five years I doubt we’ve had one decent conversation. I’m terrified to set myself up for more upset.
By the time we land I’m so het up I have to muster all my willpower not to push aside the other passengers and bolt. Instead I put myself on auto-pilot, shuffling forward when the person in front of me moves and trying not to think how much I want to run the hell away.
I haul my bag off the carousel and walk through the arrivals gate. I’m trying to decide whether to catch a bus or blow more of my savings on a taxi when I hear my name.
Weird. I didn’t tell anyone …
Someone edges out of the crowd and makes his way towards me. Brendon.
‘Tara! Your mother asked me to pick you up.’ His smile is sheepish. Presumably Shanaye or Royan phoned. It’s a miracle she thought to send him — unless, of course, it’s meant to creep me out.
All the same, I’m grateful. He takes my bag off me and leads me to his car. I’m about to climb in the back but pull myself up. Come on. Time to start acting like a grown-up.
‘How’s Dad?’ I ask.
‘They’ve taken him off everything. It’s only a matter of time.’
‘What? Hours? Days? Weeks?’
‘I’m guessing only hours or another day. It’s good you came back now.’
‘How’s Mum?’
‘Wearing herself out. Refusing to leave him except to work.’ I have to hand it to him, he sounds genuinely concerned.
Guilt stabs me in the chest. The money I gave Shanaye might’ve bought Mum a bit of time off work. ‘Can she take paid leave?’
‘She’s only owed two more days. She took a whole lot off last week.’
Guilt on guilt. I should’ve been here to help. And now I’ve blown the funeral fund, I’ll have to fork out the rest my savings to pay the bill. Welcome home, Tara. Back to all the same bloody problems.
I stare out the side window, trying to gather myself before I have to face her.
Brendon drops me at the entrance of the hospital, then drives away. Thank god. I tote my bag up in the lifts and find Dad’s ward. He’s been shifted to a room all on his own. I stand across the corridor and peek in through the open door. Mum’s washing him: wiping his face and neck, then working down his chest. He’s unrecognisable. Looks like one of those saints they used to show us pictures of at school, supposedly intact despite hundreds of years. Waxen skin, jutting cheekbones, hollow cheeks, hawkish nose.
Once more I’m struck by how loving Mum is. She’s talking to him, soothing him. At least I understand this now, even factoring in Brendon: Dad saved her, simple as that. Brought her here so she could have a chance to start again.
I brace myself and walk into the room. Feel the tension winding up inside, aware how greasy and crumpled I am after the flight. ‘Hey Mum.’
She jerks away from Dad, her arms flying out in my direction. But then she pulls them back. Don’t react. I walk right up to her and close mine around her anyway. She stiffens, but when I don’t let go she slowly wilts. Actually squeezes back before she drops away.
‘How are you?’ I pull a chair over and sit down next to her.
‘Fine.’ A flush creeps up her neck. She doesn’t meet my eye.
‘Uncle Royan and Shanaye send their love.’
‘They rang.’
I’m blushing too. I don’t know what they’ve told her about me. ‘They’re very nice. They made me feel really welcome. And the kids.’ Her silence freaks me out. ‘How’s Dad?’ I still too scared to look at him up close — too tired to cope with more than one overwhelming emotion at a time.
‘So-so. I don’t think it’ll be very long.’ She reaches over to adjust his blanket.
I have to say something. Do it now. ‘They told me everything, Mum.’ Her hand shoots to her chest. Lips compress. ‘Why didn’t you ever say something?
It might’ve helped.’ My heart’s a clattering castanet.
Mum twirls her wedding ring. Still won’t glance at me. ‘Why do you have to turn everything into a bloody drama? What’s the good of looking back?’
‘It would’ve helped me, Mum. And Van.’
Her eyes meet mine, transmitting disbelief. ‘Helped? Look what your sister did when she found out.’
‘Still, I’m guessing, like me, it broke her heart. For you, Mum. For what you’ve had to endure.’ The stoniness she’s trying to maintain is cracking round the edges, her chin wobbling with the strain. ‘She didn’t kill herself from shame. She died from lack of love. The people she loved the most rejected her — saw her as Devil’s spawn.’ The phrase comes out of nowhere and I see it slam into Mum. But she has to hear. For Van.
Mum stalks around the bed to place Dad in between us and I’m forced to look at him. God. If it wasn’t for the gurgling in his throat, I’d swear he was already dead.
‘You don’t understand,’ Mum spits out. ‘I fought to keep her, when everyone insisted I adopt her out. But it got so’s your father couldn’t see her without reliving all the shame. And the more I tried to protect her from his anger, the worse he got. It didn’t help she looked so much like me. When she hit puberty he couldn’t handle it. He’d see her with a boy and he’d have flashbacks. He blamed himself for not fetching Daddy McClusky in time — and for not realising Billy was going to take his life. Everything gets so jumbled up inside.’ I’ve never seen her look so old. Her skin is grey.
‘But why send Van away after Dad’s stroke? And then refuse to bring her back? That’s what did her in.’
‘I’m not bealin’ Wonder Woman, Tara. I simply couldn’t cope.’ She knuckles her eyes, leaving them puffy and red. ‘Look, after I had you I sunk real low. I used to think I’d have a class career, but with two kids to help support I had to face the facts. Your father bullied me along but when he had the stroke everything caved in. All I did was eat, work, sleep, tend to Paddy, pay the bills and fight over that bastard house. Day in; day out. I sent her hoping Royan and Shanaye could give her what I lacked. I couldn’t bring her home — I was in no state to put things right. Don’t think I don’t know her death was all my fault. I wake up every morning so brutally angry and resentful it poisons everything I do. It’s only since Paddy’s been in this time that I’ve had a chance to see to it. They’ve got me taking pills.’
‘Fuck, Mum, you mean you’ve been depressed for all these years?’ I don’t know why I sound surprised. Who the hell would not be depressed with what she’s been through?
‘Watch your language,’ she snarls. Then stops. Takes a deep breath. ‘They say it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. Brendon took me to the clinic. I started treatment while you’ve been away.’
Jesus Christ! ‘Wow. Good for Brendon.’ I’m impressed. Maybe Max was right and it’s time she got a break.
We stand each side of Dad. Our words hang in the air like smoke after a battle. Both have cost lives.
‘I don’t want to go on like this.’ I’d cry except I’m too exhausted. ‘I know I haven’t helped. I’ve been selfish, I see that now.’ I edge towards her.
Mum shakes her head. ‘It’s not your fault. God knows, these past weeks without you or your dad have given me a lot of time to think.’ She fiddles with a corner of the blanket, fighting tears. I haven’t seen her cry since the night she got the phone call about Van. ‘It was that painting of yours that finally shook me out of it,’ she says. The Medusa? Oh god. ‘I recognised myself — and realised if I didn’t do something to change things I’d lose you too.’
‘Oh, Mum. I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ She takes out a tissue and dabs her nose. ‘It forced me to get help. If I’m lucky maybe now I can rebuild some kind of life.’ She holds out her hand to me and I walk around the foot of the bed to take it.
When she pulls me to her of her own accord and holds me there, it nearly does me in.
‘You need a shower,’ she says, smiling through her tears as she releases me. ‘You smell like an old bogtrotter.’
‘Gee thanks.’
‘Use Dad’s one here.’ She points to the en suite door. ‘I’ll go and rustle up some tea and something for you to eat.’
I do as I’m told. Try to scrub away all seventeen years of ingrained resentment and rinse it down the drain. By the time I’m dry and dressed she’s back with Danish pastries and strong hot tea. I tell her about Vincent and the Eiffel Tower.
‘You were alone in Paris with a strange boy?’
‘Not strange. He’s the Professor’s grandson. And he’s very—’
But she’s away. ‘I suppose you’re sleeping with him?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. No, I’m not. And we were staying with his mother!’
‘Well,’ she says, backing down but still huffy. ‘I suppose I’ll have to take your word for that.’
‘I suppose you will.’
We find another comfy chair and wheel it into Dad’s room for me. Place it so we can hold one of his hands each side. He doesn’t breathe so much as rattle and the gaps between grow longer every time. Once or twice his face screws up. Occasionally he groans.
Shortly before Mum’s shift she heads up to her ward. She’s going to brief a temp so she can stay with Dad. I’m left alone with him. I perch on the bed to stroke his brow. His skin is cool and parched.
For a long time I just watch him, until I’ve formulated my last goodbyes. ‘I love you, Dad. I think I understand what made you like you were. Thank you for looking after Mum.’ I wish you’d done the same for Van. I want to say I forgive him but the words won’t come. Not yet. It’s still too raw. But understanding is a decent place to start. Max would be proud.
I place the photo Royan gave me on his chest and tuck the blanket over it. ‘Goodbye Daddy,’ I whisper, ‘you can go join Billy now.’ It’s only as I say this I realise that we’ve both lost siblings to suicide. There’s a lesson here, when I can figure it out. I kiss his forehead, then curl into my chair.
When Mum returns she’s carrying two hospital dinners. As we eat I tell her my impressions of Belfast and fill her in on family news. I don’t admit my lapse that night — she has enough to deal with.
She sounds surprised when I tell her how Shanaye and Royan are pissed off with the Church. ‘What I don’t get is why you and Dad stuck with it. Didn’t they make things worse?’
Mum’s silent for a moment and I see her inner struggle not to bite. ‘I know it seems all arse-about, but it was the only constant in our lives after we’d left. Paddy missed home so much and the Church was the one place he fitted in.’ She pats his hand. ‘You know that saying Once a Catholic, always a Catholic?’ I nod. ‘Well, in our case I suppose it’s true. Like it or not, the Church is part of our identity. It’s why our daddies fought. But if I’m really honest I wish to god we’d not set foot inside their doors once we came here. I hate it all.’
‘You think there’ll ever be a lasting peace there?’
‘That’s up to your lot. My generation’s too screwed up.’
I try to frame my next question delicately, but my mind’s too tired so in the end I blurt it out. ‘Do you know what you’re going to do when Dad — goes?’
‘Get rid of that boggin’ house.’
‘I thought you couldn’t sell it?’
‘When your daddy dies I can pay off the bank.’
‘He has life insurance?’
‘Just enough. He made me promise to keep up with the premiums no matter what. It’ll wipe the mortgage. Then I can sell it for whatever some eejit’s willing to pay.’
‘Where will you live?’
When she finally answers, some of her old defensiveness creeps back in. ‘Brendon’s asked me to live with him.’ I’m still digesting this when she goes on. ‘He said you can come too.’
Wow. That stings. ‘No, thanks.’ Come on, it’s not as if I actually want to live with Mum again. Maybe this is
best for everyone. It’s good. It really is. ‘So, you’re sure this Brendon’s a good guy?’
She splutters out a laugh. ‘He seems to love me despite everything.’ She blushes like a teenager. ‘I never thought I’d have another chance. I can’t afford to mess it up.’
I do the maths. She only turns forty this year. Still enough time. ‘I hope it works out, Mum. I really do.’
Between us, Dad releases a long slow sigh. I wait for him to draw another breath. Wait. And wait. Mum slips her fingers to the pulse-point at his throat. Closes her eyes. One-a-b … two-a-b … three-a-b … four … Her eyes reopen and she shakes her head. ‘He’s gone.’
She folds him in her arms. Cries like she’s freeing something that’s been rusted up inside. I lean across and stroke her hair, feeling strangely calm. I’m relieved for him. For her. For me.
When there’s nothing more I can do to help her, I head to Max’s and collapse into bed. I’d offered to go home with her but she was meeting Brendon. That’s still too weird. Instead, I lie awake and think about the past few years, how every moment of our lives revolved around Dad’s needs. It’s going to take some time to adjust to the fact he’s gone. And not just missing in action, really gone. No longer festering in the corner. No longer tracking my every move with resentful eyes. Gone like Van is gone.
What would he have been like if he’d been born here? Or if he’d loved Van for the girl she was instead of the embodiment of all his hate? Did he love me? I suppose he must have. Just had no skills to express it. The dream of doing up our rotten house was probably his attempt to put things right for all of us.
Eventually I succumb to jetlag and fall into a dreamless sleep. I wake at noon with a surprising sense of lightness, as if I’ve shed a leaden skin. Once I’m showered and dressed I drop in at the library to send a message to Johannes, though Paris now seems a fantasy. He’s already left a message, a one-liner written on the night I left: There is nothing more truly artistic than to love people. It’s followed by a row of hearts. I laugh out loud. Since when did he start quoting Vincent?
Once I’ve told him about Dad I quickly do a search for quotes by that philosopher he talked about, Immanuel Kant. I can’t believe it. There’s one that could’ve been written by Vincent too. Two things awe me most, the starry sky above me and the moral law within. I cut and paste it, then end the message with a line of kisses. Tit for tat. I wish I could be there to see his smile.
