Chapter 42
42
The lipstick-pink hydrangeas I remember from the summers of our youth are still there, their heads now petals of rusted, brittle slate-brown in the depths of winter. There are lights on timers in the flower beds, blinking on in the falling dusk.
Fin starts speaking.
“The first time my dad beat me I was six. Maybe seven. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong. I remember the sheer confusion, above all. More than the pain, or the shock of the violence. Knowing that people thought I was a clever boy , but for some reason I couldn’t figure out what had led to me being walloped like that. Like a math problem where I just couldn’t add up. Think, Finlay. After that first time, it carried on once every month or so, until I was eleven, or twelve, I think. When I got old enough to fight back, or to tell people—people who could’ve caused real trouble, like teachers. Before then, I drove myself mad thinking there were ways to avoid it, if only I could adjust my behavior accordingly.
“There was also about six months or so when I was ten that it mysteriously stopped, which afterward I put down to him screwing a secretary at his firm. My being left alone ran concurrent with heated arguments with my mother, lots of slamming of doors, and someone called that slag Christina by my mum, who got fired.”
Finlay gives me a wry look but I’m not ready for wry yet.
“I always knew when a beating was coming, I learned to read the signs. He’d get this malicious glint in his eye, or he’d been drinking. Or he’d come back from the office in a foul mood. He’d pick fault, work himself into a temper with me to justify it. It was like an outlet he allowed himself, but he was fastidiously careful. It was always in an upstairs room with the door closed, it was always as quiet as possible. For the most part, he never left bruises. No belt or anything. No marks. He’d already thought about how he might get caught, and in a really twisted way that gives me peace. I don’t ever need to wonder if he intended me harm, if he intended me to suffer in silence, and be disbelieved if I told anyone. I know for sure he did. It might have been an irrational urge in him, but he controlled it in an incredibly rigid, rational way.”
My face is burning hot in the extreme cold. I have to take my hand out of Fin’s and rub it on my skirt.
“That day, you waited for me on a bike ride,” I say. “When Susie and Gloria rode off. Do you remember that day? He hit you for that, didn’t he?” My mouth’s dry. Looking back, I can picture the intensity of Mr. Hart’s wrath, and the limp, blank acquiescence of Finlay as he was pulled indoors.
I could easily cry but I fight it, I don’t want to, I don’t want to turn this into Finlay having to comfort me.
“Yes, but that wasn’t because I stayed with you. If I’d left you, the thrashing would’ve been for that. He constructed no- win scenarios for me. Like I said, when he wanted to do it, he always found cause.”
I nod. “I see.” Except I don’t, not at all.
“Aged thirteen, having not been belted for a while, I found the courage to tell my mum what had been going on. But my dad had established this narrative that I was malign, I was disruptive. If you demonize a child, they tend to get a bit demonic, making it easier and easier. He was clever enough an abuser to have discredited me. I could do no right, Susie could do no wrong, that was always how it was. So straight away, my mother said I was lying, that it was a disgusting thing to say about my father, and how dare I. She actually said: ‘This is typical of you.’”
“She really didn’t believe you?”
“No, I think she did. I’m not going to let her off the hook and say she thought it wasn’t true. I think she probably knew, instinctively, it was. My mum liked our social status, she liked our house, the holidays. My mum valued appearances. Look at how the affair was handled. I bet Susie never told you about that?”
I shake my head.
“Yep. We had it drummed into us that you do not talk about the family skeletons. It getting out that my dad was violently assaulting his young son would’ve torn it all down. When I said he’d been viciously beating me for years, either he had to be thrown overboard, or I did. It was a straight choice. My mum chose my dad.”
I get a hard, sharp pain under my ribs. “Did he hit Susie?”
Fin shakes his head.
“Never, that I know of, nor my mum. I think I would’ve known. Doted on Susie. Whatever psychological fault line that I opened up, she didn’t. I’ve asked myself many times, if Iain Hart had two daughters, would he have ever laid a finger on his offspring? Who knows. Maybe a different son would’ve got different. Maybe he just hated me.”
“It’s not your fault. Whatsoever,” I say.
“I know,” Fin says, clasping my hand again, and squeezing. “Took some time, and a change of continent, a spot of rehab, and a fair-size therapy bill, but I know.”
“Fuck,” I say. “All this time. You being spoken of as this terrible person...”
“Susie didn’t lie to you.” Fin turns to look at me. “I don’t want you to blame her. I always tell clients not to use the word ‘damaged,’ but I was, Eve. Through my teens, I made it very clear I wanted nothing more than to be the fuck out of the family home as soon as I could. Susie saw a lot of shit behavior from me as we got older. I played it out exclusively at home, because I was smart enough to know school was my launchpad for getting out of here. Like my dear dad, I too knew to keep it behind closed doors.”
“Did you never try to tell her what had gone on?”
“Yes, once. As a punishment, he locked us in a wardrobe. We were very little. That was the one time I saw him go ballistic on Susie too. She was hyperventilating that she was going to run out of air, it was horrible. That was why I didn’t want her to be buried.”
I know Fin isn’t trying to score a point, but I feel this anyway.
“I thought that sadism might be the shred of proof I needed for her to believe me.
“We were in the pub, not long before I left for London, I took a very deep breath and said Dad had abused me. She shrugged it off. Come on, Finlay, don’t dramatize it with the A word. You were a total bastard to him too and you know you were. I remember your arguments. Remember when you stole his credit card. Or trashed his spirits cabinet. You got smacked a few times? Well Dad’s old-school, isn’t he, he still thinks you can do that. Yes, he would think he could do that to a boy in a different way. Especially a hoodlum like you . It was like watching stones bounce off shatterproof glass.
“She was seventeen and I was nineteen and I’d left it too late. Susie’s opinion of her upbringing wasn’t going to change in one conversation. Her view of her father wasn’t going to shift to accommodate it. As she made clear, I wasn’t a sympathetic victim. I know what she meant.”
“It’s not your fault if no one would listen,” I say, slightly hoarse.
“I’ve had a lot of time to think about what happened between myself and Susie. You know how, if you’re late to meet someone—at first the person waiting for you is confused, then they’re pissed off. They get worried. Your task when it comes to an explanation and apology when you do turn up gets bigger, with each passing minute. Eventually they give up, and they leave. They’re not waiting for you anymore. That was my relationship with Susie. By the time I was ready to talk and tell her why I’d been such a destructive, miserable bastard, she’d gone. I’d kept her waiting too long for her to have any interest or faith in what I was going to say. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have tried harder. I wish I had. I wondered if her diaries had any hint in there that she knew, that she ever thought back on that conversation about Dad, and rethought.”
“That was why you wanted them?”
“Yes.”
He has to know. He can’t think he’s told me all this, and I still wouldn’t hand them over.
“Fuck, Fin. I destroyed them. Before Edinburgh. I was angry at Susie, and you were pushing and I thought I should do something definitive. You were right. I had no right, or idea what I was interfering with. Fuck, I’m so sorry...”
I find I’m not even scared of Fin’s reaction, I’m too disgusted and shocked at myself, before that can crowd in. I want him to scold me, I deserve it.
“Hey, it’s alright,” Fin says, evenly. “I’d changed my mind anyway. It was an impulse, in the first wave of grief, knowing I’d never get to ask her. I don’t think I should’ve read her diaries.” He pauses. “My behavior toward you, over that—that was you getting a taste of the displaced anger that Susie got inured to.”
“Susie would’ve sided with you, if she’d known what I do,” I say, with conviction. “It would’ve been tough to absorb but she’d have got there. She hated bullies. Remember the shoes story, in her eulogy?”
“I hope you’re right. Getting to know you has helped bring her back to me. I almost feel like it’s Susie, from the afterlife, gloating— see, Finlay?! I’d misjudged too.”
“Haha, why?”
“I thought she was an arrogant princess who, compared to me, had played life on the easy setting. My dad’s divide and conquer had worked. But she’d kept you as a best friend, that tells me she was always the little sister I remember. Boister ous, bloody cantankerous when thwarted, but funny as hell and heart in the right place.”
“That’s a good Susie summary,” I say, with the uneven, gasping tone of someone who’s breaking up crying, my sight blurred.
“Every time you make one of your arch comments, I feel like I can hear her laughing like a drain. Thanks to you, I’m proud of her. You’re a connection to the Susie I didn’t get to be close to.”
Finlay only just gets these words out before his own tears take over and we lean against each other, holding on to each other, like the ground beneath us might move.
As we steady ourselves, we realize how cold and dark the garden has become.
“Have you had attacks like that before?” I say, quietly, wiping under my eyes. “That was a panic attack?”
“Yeah, but not for years, and not many. With the cost of American healthcare, I soon taught myself breathing techniques, so I didn’t land with a trip to A&E. He gave me an unexpected jolt, is all. I’ve never liked being inside these walls again.”
I say, “Of course. He gave me a jolt.” There’s a pause. “There’s something I still can’t work out,” I say. “Why are you helping him? Why not fly back to NYC saying see ya later, electrocute yourself in the bath for all I care? I would.”
“For closure. Never got it with my mother, won’t get it with my sister, and realized when Susie first said my father’s memory was fragmenting that the bastard would evade me ever confronting him. I got the hatred and the anger and the self-righteousness out of my system in my twenties. I understand better how I remove the noose of Iain Hart from my neck now. It turns out that Christians were on to something, with forgiveness. If I treat him well, find a home, make sure he has end-of-life care—it’s ultimate proof to myself that I’m not him. My conscience will be clear when he dies. That feels like a victory.”
“You’re a better person than I am,” I say.
“Oh, I’m not,” Fin says, turning dark blue eyes on me, and I wilt. Everyone should be looked at the way I’m being looked at right now, once in their life.
“Right. I need a minute alone to get myself together, do you want to say goodbye to him?” Fin says, standing up, brushing his hands. “Here’s the keys to the Merc. I parked a few streets away and went on a run. Never visit here without a getaway car.”
“I’m not walking out of the front door and leaving you alone with him. Not for a second.”
“Come here,” Fin says, and hugs me hard enough to squeeze the air out of me. “If he tried to swing for me now I’m six foot and he’s senile, it’d end badly for him. I’m not in any physical danger. I had a shock earlier, that’s all.”
“I know I’m a pathetic protector and I’m wearing a skirt with dancing squirrels printed on it... but... let me rescue you!” I blurt, half crying, half laughing.
“Ah, but, you see—the thing is, Evelyn Harris. You already have,” Fin says, putting his hand to my face.
A S I PASS the front room, I hear the burble of a television show and can’t stop myself from walking in and looking at him, one last time.
Mr. Hart glances up, face wreathed in smiles. “Eve! You two still out there? What are you gabbing on about?”
“He told me it wasn’t him who was the poison. You are,” I say, under my breath.
“I’m sorry?” Mr. Hart says, turning back to the TV.
“I wish you were,” I say.