Dear Vincent

by Mandy Hager

  I set off for the hospital, hoping Mum’s not there. I have a burning need to see Dad, to reassure myself I’m not responsible for speeding up his death. Crazy, I know. Who the hell would seriously want to prolong his life? Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned …

  The bike ride helps to ease my jitters. By the time I reach the hospital I’m almost calm. I check in at the main reception desk, then head up to his ward. There’s something about the smell of hospitals that’s like no other place: that special blend of antiseptic and congealing fat. The rest home has it too, though with an extra seasoning of human waste.

  There’s no one at the nurses’ station when I check the whiteboard for Dad’s room number. I edge up to his door. It’s clear.

  He’s hooked up to a whole raft of machines, including a ventilator to help him breathe. Not a good sign. His skin’s still grey, its texture dry and sagging in limp folds strung out between the bones that form his face. His bristles are startlingly white, his eyes two sunken gummy holes. It’s hard to picture him as young and healthy any more — when I try all I find are screenshots of his fiery anger, eyes blazing, mouth curled in a thin-lipped sneer. I must have happier memories — right? —but nothing cuts through the years of almost constant crap.

  I sit down beside him and take his hand. The veins and sinews stand out like knotted cords under his thinning skin. Oh, Dad. How is it possible to both hate and love you all at once?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to make you worse.’

  Whoosh, suck. Whoosh, suck. The mechanical rise and fall of his chest is mesmerising. When I can finally drag myself away, I scan the chart that hangs at the foot of his bed. Nope, no help. It may as well be in Chinese. I pat his foot then leave the room. There’s a nurse outside, sorting files.

  ‘Hi. I’m Paddy McClusky’s daughter. Could you please tell me how he is?’

  The way she eyes me says it all. Go, Mum. ‘I’m afraid I can’t—’

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘He’s my dad. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care.’ The poor woman is wavering, clearly caught between Mum’s guilt trip and my own. ‘Please. How would you feel if he was your dad?’ I’ve heard Mum try such tactics on the bank manager. What if he was your father … your husband … your son …

  Heat mottles the poor woman’s neck. Then she nods. ‘As you know, he’s had a seizure. It’s not uncommon after a stroke, even this far down the track — but it means there could be an increased likelihood he’ll have more. We’ll need to monitor him and do further investigations in case the seizure’s made things worse.’

  ‘So he’ll be in here for a while?’

  ‘I expect so. Several weeks.’

  Thank god for that! Someone else to take responsibility for him. ‘When is it best for me to visit?’ I catch her gaze, hoping she’ll understand what’s left unsaid.

  Her eyes reassure me. ‘Your mother said she’d be in before and after her own shifts. You should be fine to visit around this time each day.’

  ‘Thank you. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate your help.’ I can sense her watching me all the way down the corridor until I’m out the door. As soon as I’m out of sight, I lean against the wall and gulp down several relieved breaths. I’m free! I have no reason now to go back home. He’s in safe hands. So long as he’s in here nothing more can be blamed on me. I snub the lifts and skip down all six flights of stairs.

  At work I make a beeline for the Professor’s room, only to discover that he’s out. Still, the time sails by without much stress, and I manage to convince the late shift to let me stay another night. Tomorrow, once I’ve had a decent sleep, I’ll be in better shape to sort out what to do.

  But once the last of the old wanderers have settled and the place rings with snores, my insecurities flood back. Every time I close my eyes I see my painting, the little faces animated with grimaces of horror, fear and grief. I wrap a blanket round my shoulders and go to make myself a cup of Ovaltine. A memory stirs. Van bringing me a cup, then snuggling into bed with me and whispering stories till I drifted back to sleep. Not only her own imaginings, but a whole repertoire of other favourites too.

  High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword hilt … She’d memorised it all and when she came to the most plaintive part I chimed in too, my voice thick with rising dreams. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not stay with me one night more? And if not ‘The Happy Prince’ then the story of the Selfish Giant. I have many beautiful flowers in my garden but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all … Or ‘The Small One’, with the sad little donkey whose stubbornness led to destiny fulfilled. They’re still the most important moral lessons of my life — far more than the sanctimonious coercion of the Church.

  As I walk back from the kitchens I notice that the door out to the courtyard is cracked open. The glowing red eye of a cigarette arcs through the night to light up the Professor’s face as he inhales. I slip outside. The night is cold, the stars impossibly bright.

  ‘Evening,’ I call, not wanting to take him by surprise. ‘I missed you today.’ I tuck the blanket under me and sit on the bench next to him, warming my hands around the cup.

  ‘I got a day’s parole for good behaviour.’ I can hear the wry smile in his voice. ‘And you, my dear? You like the place so much that now you live here too?’

  I laugh. ‘How’d you guess?’ I can tell he’s waiting for me to say more. It’s easier, somehow, to confess in the dark. ‘Home and I parted company before I had a chance to figure out Plan B.’

  ‘You have no other family or friends?’ He stubs out his cigarette and immediately lights another.

  ‘Child of immigrants, remember? As for friends … I haven’t had the time.’ It sounds so pitiful I fake another carefree laugh. ‘Oh woe is me!’

  ‘Tell me your woes,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing like a good story to drive the night demons away.’

  ‘You have them too?’ My eyes are adjusting to the dark and I see him nod.

  ‘You have no idea.’ He takes a long drag, then exhales the smoke in a thin stream. ‘Old age reshuffles the memory files. What happened yesterday is forgotten in an instant, while my childhood comes back to haunt me with my living dead. It’s hard to fob them off.’

  ‘What part of Austria did you come from?’ Rather his story than mine.

  ‘Vienna. Wien. One of the most beautiful cities in the world.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. Do you miss it?’

  ‘Half of every second of every day — and in the other half I thank God that I’m here.’

  ‘Have you been back?’

  ‘Oh yes. But not until almost thirty years after I first left. It’s hard. You realise what you pined for was not the city after all. It was the people and the memories of childhood — and all you’re left with is survivor guilt.’

  Survivor guilt. The phrase stabs me in the heart. Oh yes. ‘Did you lose a lot of family in the war?’

  ‘Let’s just say my family tree was pruned right down to one forlorn stalk, transplanted here.’ The implication is so terrible I don’t know what to say. An awkward silence builds until he snorts and slaps his sole remaining thigh. ‘And now they prune a little more of that each year.’

  ‘How do you stand it?’ I burst out. ‘How do you stand the pain?’ I’m shaking as the cold bites through my layers.

  ‘Which one?’ He chuckles as he leans over to tug the blanket tight around my shoulders. ‘The physical phantom pain I can control by medication on a good day — and on a bad day it’s still easier to cope with than the metaphysical phantoms. I try to remember that their deaths were not of my making — and that my escape gave them solace in their last hours. And hope. I was their beacon in the dark.’

  His words shake me so much that when I raise my cup to drink, the china clinks against my teeth and I’m splashed b
y drips.

  ‘Good heavens, girl, you’re freezing. Let’s get you back inside.’ He tosses his cigarette away and offers me his hand to pull me to my feet. I take it gratefully, then lead the way indoors, my blanket spilling out behind me like a bridal train.

  ‘So do you have any ideas for this elusive Plan B?’ he asks when we’re back in his room.

  I shake my head. ‘I’m still waiting for divine inspiration.’ I rest my eyes on Vincent’s star-filled sky, hoping to find a clue.

  ‘Perhaps I can help.’ He wheels his chair over to the bedside table and opens a drawer to take out a bunch of keys. He peels one off the ring. ‘My home is sitting empty and though Johannes feeds my cat, poor Spinoza’s not used to so much time alone. Go stay there — you’d be doing me a favour. Water the plants. Read the books. Set up my little sun porch so you can paint.’

  ‘I couldn’t. I—’

  ‘Please, Tara. My daughter Mitzie doesn’t return for another fifteen weeks — she has the flat upstairs. Johannes is there all on his own — not that he’ll bother you, but if you’re keeping an eye on my flat you’ll take a load off him.’

  ‘But you don’t even know me.’

  ‘Quite the opposite. You love Van Gogh. You listen to Wagner. You have a warm and tender heart. What else do I need to know?’

  It’s so unexpected, so kind, I’m on the verge of tears. ‘Thank you. I promise I won’t let you down.’

  He presses the key into my hand. ‘There is one small condition …’

  I thought it was too good to be true. I hold the key back out to him. ‘Thank you anyway, but I’m afraid I can’t afford to pay.’

  ‘No, no! That’s not it at all. If you can contribute to the power bill that would be nice but not essential. No. What I was going to say is that I will still visit there as much as I am able — though I’m happy to coordinate the timing with your shift so I don’t bother you.’ He presses the key onto me again and quickly withdraws his hand.

  ‘Of course! You come whenever you want to. I’ll be at school in the morning anyhow, and at work till late.’ I stand up, suddenly so sleepy I can hardly speak. ‘Thank you. You have no idea …’ I stoop and kiss him on the cheek. ‘Do you want me to help you into bed?’

  ‘Want? Oh no. But need? Yes, I’m afraid you must.’

  I help him take off his dressing gown, then hoist him into bed. It feels too intimate after our chat — not the usual disconnect I have with other residents. It’s more like helping Dad, except the sight of the Professor’s ravaged body actually affects me more. I guess I’ve grown immune to Dad. Hardened.

  After a promise to check in first thing in the morning, I go back to my fold-down bed and fall asleep so quickly it’s like flicking a switch.

  THE PROFESSOR’S STREET IS a twenty-five-minute slog away. It’s in an old, established neighbourhood, mainly ex-state houses and modern family homes. I’m sweating by the time I reach his letterbox. My arms ache from dragging the overloaded bags I need to dump before I head to school.

  A sweeping drive overhung by native trees gives way to an enclosed private lawn. And there’s the house. It’s lovely. Classic art deco: two storeys of white-plastered beauty, with walls that curve to form three tiers of waves. Wraparound leadlight windows hug its contours, offset by decorative slots of coloured glass. The entrance sweeps out to greet me, its slab of roof supported by real marble columns to match the porch steps and floor. It’s a classy birthday cake of a house.

  I walk around the back, as the Professor instructed, and let myself in through the sun porch. There’s a separate staircase to the upstairs flat tacked on the side; clearly, the house used to be one big home. Inside is just as magical: the sun porch opens to a lounge that’s rich with beautiful antique furniture and Persian rugs, whole walls of books and paintings. It’s the kind of house my old private-school friends lived in. The kind of house Mum and Dad aspired to once they’d fixed our dump.

  I wander from room to room, imagining what it would’ve meant to have been brought up here, surrounded by this wealth of knowledge and beautiful art. It has a cosy, lived-in feel, exudes a kind of love. I can’t believe he trusts me to be here.

  Spinoza is asleep in a patch of sunlight on a window seat in the lounge. He’s ancient and fat, a riot of orange and brown splotches against a thick white mat. When I stroke him he looks up with lazy eyes, his purr a rusty old machine.

  I lug my bags into a small spare bedroom to unpack. I should be rushing off to school, but I don’t want to leave. The silence and sense of peace is hypnotising.

  I lie down on top of the soft blue-striped duvet and close my eyes. The ball of tension behind my ribs begins to ebb away. If Mum and Dad had managed to restore our house, created something more like this, would it have made them happy? Changed our lives? Or is that too shallow, imagining all our problems could be cured by the right address — or good soft furnishings and matching chairs? Yet even Vincent craved a space that felt like a real home. He worked himself into a frenzy fitting out his yellow house in Arles to lure Gauguin.

  No, I decide, in the end what turns a house into a home is love. If Van had felt it, she’d never have left. My family’s disintegration never really centred round the state of our decaying house. That was just the outward manifestation of the rot within.

  5

  Without wishing to, I’ve more or less become some sort of impossible and suspect character in the family, in any event, somebody who isn’t trusted, so how, then, could I be useful to anybody in any way.

  — VINCENT TO THEO, CUESMES, JUNE 1880

  I’M CURLED UP BY the cat on the window seat, trying to motivate myself to go to school. The sun pours in through the window, surprisingly warm.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  My heart leaps to my throat. The Professor’s grandson, Johannes, looms in the doorway, a baseball bat braced across his chest. I’m Goldilocks sprung by the bear. My arms fly up as if he’s pointing a gun.

  ‘Shit! Sorry! It’s okay. Your grandfather sent me round to stay. Didn’t he warn you?’

  He looks me up and down, clearly confused. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Tara McClusky. We met at Twilight House.’

  He lowers the bat but not his guard, takes out his mobile phone and dials. As he waits for the call to go through, I feel blood rush to my face.

  ‘Opa! It’s me. Did you give someone your key?’ His gaze holds mine as he listens, his eyes an unusual gentian blue. The line between them relaxes as the Professor explains. The place is so quiet I can hear the buzz of the old man’s voice. ‘You’re sure? Okay. I’ll see you later … yes, okay. Sure.’

  He ends the call and pockets his phone, then lets out a long breath and nods. ‘Sorry. He forgot to warn me. When I saw the back door open I thought someone had broken in.’

  ‘No worries. I don’t blame you.’ He’s so tall he fills the whole doorway. ‘I promise I’ll be really careful. I’ll just be here to sleep and feed the cat.’ I should offer to leave but I don’t want to risk it.

  Now he leans the bat against the wall and enters the lounge. Spinoza oozes himself onto the floor, then waddles over to rub himself against Johannes’ feet. He meows as if to say he’s not been fed for years. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Johannes croons. ‘I’ve heard those lies before.’

  I’m not sure what to do. It’s hardly my place to offer hospitality. But if we’re going to be neighbours, I guess I need to make an effort. ‘Cup of tea? I was just going to make one, then I have to be off.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  He follows as I make my way through to the kitchen, then leans against the door frame and watches as I fill the jug. I don’t want to rummage in the Professor’s cupboards in front of him, so I shrug and make a gesture of defeat. ‘I don’t know where anything is.’

  ‘Here,’ he says. He reaches over top of me and opens a wall-hung cupboard. ‘Cups are here. Plates and dishes under the bench. Cutlery’s over in that top drawer. Coffee, tea an
d sugar in those canisters by the jug.’ He opens the fridge. ‘A miracle! There’s even milk!’

  Spinoza stretches his front legs up mine and peers imploringly into my face with a high-pitched pleading purr. ‘Oh, so you think I’m a softer touch, do you?’ I reach down and scratch between his ears, all the while aware of Johannes’ searching gaze. I will not blush. He’s handsome, no doubt of that, but not in a plastic boy-band way. His nose is just a little long, his mouth too wide. He exudes the same fierce intelligence as his grandfather. ‘Did you know cats have a special high-pitched purr they use when they want something? On the same frequency as a crying human baby, apparently — that’s why it’s so hard to resist,’ I say.

  He grins. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised. I think if there’s such a thing as reincarnation I’d come back as a cat. They have a pretty laid-back life.’

  ‘Only if they’re loved.’ I’m surprised by the bitterness in my voice. Now I do blush, heat searing up my cheeks and pulsing through my scalp. Get a grip. ‘I hear your mother is overseas.’ The kettle has boiled and I get busy making tea.

  ‘Yeah. She’s gone across to Europe to work on a book.’

  ‘Wow! So she’s a writer?’ Stupid, stupid question. My blush intensifies, something I didn’t think possible. I’m crap with boys.

  ‘Kind of. She’s a psychologist. She’s doing some research into Jung and Freud.’

  ‘Does she practise what they preach?’

  He laughs. ‘God, yes! You’ve no idea how annoying it is having every word you say analysed for hidden meaning. Every single thing I do she labels as some kind of new phase!’

  I have to smile. ‘Bummer.’

  ‘Yeah. Though I guess she only does it because she cares.’ He hands me the carton of milk. ‘Here. None for me.’

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ He takes his tea and leads the way back to the lounge.

  We sit down at the dining table — mahogany, I think — and use coasters under the cups. ‘This place is beautiful,’ I say. ‘Your grandfather is very generous to let me stay.’