by Dee White
“For God’s sake, Matt, what’s wrong with you?”
That’s the slap in the face I needed. “What’s wrong with me? That’s a joke.”
I shove Dave out of the room and slam the door shut. I’d lock it but we don’t have locks on our doors. Dave always said we don’t need them – that we don’t have anything to hide from each other. Huh! As if.
I push my double bed up against the door so he can’t get back in. I jam my finger between the bedhead and the wall. It’s the same finger I pricked with the Mayberry Girls’ Grammar pin. The pain brings me back to where all this started – with Dave’s lies.
He knocks relentlessly on the door. “Talk to me, Matt.”
I don’t answer.
“You can’t stay in there forever.”
Want to make a bet?
Finally, his retreating footsteps clomp on the wooden floorboards. Now there’s no sound except my breaths coming in short angry wheezes. I know I need to calm down, but I can’t seem to help it. I’m fuelled with anger – it’s all that’s keeping me from breaking down.
I refocus on my laptop screen. No answer from K Armain, no answers to any of this.
The smell of pizza wafts under my door and I realise that I’m dizzy with hunger. I don’t think I can hold out any longer. I check my email one last time – still nothing! I push my bed back to its usual place and open the bedroom door.
Dave eyes me off when I walk into the kitchen, as if he’s working out what sort of mood I’m in and how to handle me.
He dumps a huge slab of ham and pineapple pizza in front of me and asks, “How was school, Matt?”
He’s going for the “let’s pretend nothing has happened” approach. Why am I not surprised? Because I’ve just found out that’s what he’s been doing for most of my life.
I snort. “I didn’t go to school. Didn’t feel like it.”
Dave looks at me intently. I think he might have figured out who the burglar was. “Education is important, you know that,” he says, passing me a glass of lime cordial.
So is being honest with your kid.
I take a huge bite of pizza.
We’re like two cows in a paddock; the only sound is the chewing of pizza. The food helps the nausea, but not the pounding anger. I want to confront him. Now. But I can’t stomach the thought of more lies.
Dave takes his empty plate to the sink. “So, why didn’t you go to school?”
I keep munching. Dave stands next to me. “Should I be calling the police, Matt? Were we burgled or do you know something about the mess in my room?”
I shrug.
Dave’s voice is firm. “Matt, what do you know?”
I stand and shove my chair against the table, spilling my cordial.
“What do I know about the mess?”
Dave nods.
“That it’s nowhere near as bad as the mess that is my life.”
I’m only just keeping it together.
“What’s wrong with you, Matt? What’s happened?”
I can feel Dave’s breath on my face. I step away and press my lips together tight. I’m not ready to answer questions yet – or even to ask my own. I need to find out more about my mother first – from an authentic source. I need to know that what he tells me isn’t MORE LIES.
Dave goes to the bookcase. I wait for him to pull down Sons and the Single Parent, by Frank Rosenbaum. It’s where he goes for advice when he’s under pressure. Dave’s always quoting from his “bible”. According to Rosenbaum, “A good father is his son’s best buddy.” Dave told someone once that we were best buddies and didn’t need a woman stuffing things up for us.
That’s his opinion, not mine. I never had a say in it.
“What are you looking for, Dave?”
He’s about to reach for the book when he stops himself, turns and looks at me.
My head feels like it’s about to explode. “What do you do when your son gives you attitude? Better ask Rosenbaum, Dave.”
I stomp to my room, slam the door and push my bed back up against it.
There’s still nothing from K Armain.
I stare at my Mona Lisa screen saver, wondering why I chose that out of all Leo’s paintings. Tears sting my eyes. Was she ever a mother? Did she have a son?
Questions! So many questions – and no answers.
I trace my fingers over the smooth forehead of Mona Lisa and start thinking about Leonardo. I wonder what was going on in his head when he painted her. I wonder what that “air of mystery” was all about.
I decide to Google “Leonardo da Vinci”. Maybe trying to forget my own stuff, and finding out about someone else’s life, might make the wait more bearable.
Dear Leonardo,
Talk about serendipity. Just found out it would have been your birthday today too.
And that’s not all we have in common.
Your dad took you away from your mum. How weird is that?
How did you deal with the missing bits in your life?
I’ve always felt like an unfinished painting – a background wash with just an outline – all the important detail left out.
So much of me is Dave, but so much is different – like my art – and the way I like being by myself.
Dave hates the quiet. Has to have people and action.
Maybe it helps him forget what he’s done.
Matt
There’s still no email.
I go back to Google – to check out more of Leo’s work. There’s this one painting, St Jerome. I can’t stop looking at it – at the torture in the saint’s eyes as he crouches among those craggy rocks, prostrate before that open-mouthed lion. It’s like that painting expresses everything that’s going on inside me. I wish I had half Leonardo’s talent – and balance. Everything’s perfectly in proportion (except the right hand’s a bit big) – but hell, nobody’s perfect.
Even Dave – especially Dave – with his self-help books, and his “honest real estate agent” face. Good old “Honest Dave”, his truth is scratchy at best.
Come on, K Armain! Where are you? Why aren’t you answering my email?
Dear Leo,
Did you miss your mum? Did you ever wonder in those years you never saw her, what she really looked like? Not just in photos, I mean. Then again, you probably didn’t even have photos back then.
Did you mind going to live with your dad, or were you too young just like me? Kids never get a say in stuff like that.
You painted so many women. Was that how you got over losing your mum? Do you ever get over something like that?
Maybe that’s what I need – to get out my gear and start painting. Thanks for the tip, Leo.
Matt
I lie on my bed, eyes closed, trying to keep it together. Until now, I never really thought or cared much about who I was, or where I came from.
Dave never talked about Mum – except to say she was killed in that car accident. We moved soon after she “died” and our relatives live miles away. There’s never been anyone I could talk to who knew Mum.
Once I asked Dave if I was like her and it really fired him up. Said, “You’re not like her and never will be!” I was about seven and he seemed so mad that I was too scared to ask what he meant.
I used to wonder sometimes what it would be like to have a mum at parent teacher night or helping out in the school canteen. But I always told myself, “Forget it, she’s dead. It can’t happen.”
But it could have. Mum could have taken me to school and watched my music concerts – if she’d known about them. Mum’s not dead!
Dear Leonardo,
Do you reckon it’s possible that Mum and Dave agreed to all this between them?
Maybe she didn’t want me!
But what did she say in her card? She “thinks about me every day” – like she misses me. Like none of this was really her choice.
How do you make sense of it all?
And what else haven’t I been told? Is Dave that warped that he just wants
to keep me for himself? Heaps of kids in my class live with their mums and spend weekends and holidays with their dads. Why couldn’t we have been like that?
Dave is false, a con – what you see is not what you get. He’s like a picture that’s been painted over. When you scrape off the surface layers you find the real hypocritical, lying Dave. I hate him.
And I’m going to make him feel my pain.
They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but what about the paintbrush – or the spray can? No pathetic little sketchpads for you. You painted on a grand scale – big and bold. I could paint Dave’s bedroom bright orange – he’d hate that.
But no, I’m going to do my artwork where everyone can see. Something massive – a masterpiece.
Going to paint something immense like your Last Supper. Can’t believe it’s nearly nine metres long. Now that’s some canvas.
I think I know just the place for my public exhibition.
Matt
I fall asleep at the laptop with the Mona Lisa screen saver watching over me. When I wake up it’s still not light. My computer screen tells me it’s 3.48. I’ve been slumped over with my head on the keyboard.
My neck aches – feels like it has been stretched between two trees. The crushing feeling in my chest hasn’t gone away, and my legs have been squashed for too long under the computer desk.
I check my email. Still nothing! I slam my fist down on the keyboard.
I can’t go back to sleep. There’s too much going on in my head – too much to find out, too much to think about. Too many things boiling away inside me.
I stand up and stretch to get my legs working again and to loosen the tightness in my neck and shoulders. Then I sit back at the computer to wait for morning.
At eight in the morning the front door slams as Dave leaves for work. He hasn’t even knocked on my door. Rosenbaum probably told him to leave it alone – pretend we never argued, wait for me to make the first move. That’s not going to happen.
A minute later, my laptop beeps “incoming mail”. Finally, it’s there, in my inbox, something from Kathryn Armain. I sit staring at it – too scared to click “open”. What if she tells me to mind my own business? Or worse?
My eyes are heavy from not enough sleep. I feel like I want to throw up again.
“Don’t be such a wimp,” I tell myself. “This is what you’ve been waiting for.”
I have to focus to make my fingers click on Kathryn Armain’s reply. My stomach churns as I read each word carefully to make sure I get it right.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Looking for Zara
Dear Matt,
Sorry I can’t give you the information you need.
I have spoken to a couple of girls from our class, but we lost contact with your mother after high school. Bethany Summers remembers seeing something about her in the paper about ten years ago, but can’t remember what it was about. Could have been her art – she was a fantastic painter.
Your mother went out with a guy called Scott Reesborough from Ashton High. You might find his details on their website. He could have kept in touch.
Hope you find her.
All the best,
Kathryn Armain
4
Mum is an artist! Why didn’t Dave ever mention that? Is that why he doesn’t like me doing art?
She paints! Like me! It makes me feel connected to her – excited, hopeful. But then I realise, I don’t even know where my own mother is. Kathryn’s email has given me nothing. I go from hyped to gutted in a blink. My stomach rumbles to remind me it’s breakfast time, but I’m too worked up for anything solid.
I go into the lounge room and lie around on the couch, drinking milk straight from the bottle – pity Dave’s not here to see me. I’m thinking about having another day off school when the doorbell rings. I ignore it. The bell rings again. As I amble down the hallway, the front door opens. Dave mustn’t have locked it – probably thought I’d be leaving straight after him.
Troy walks in wearing a stethoscope around his neck made from a shoelace and two round cupboard doorknobs. “Dr Daly at your service.” He’s carrying a huge tub of chocolate ice-cream – my favourite.
“What are you doing, Troy?”
“Thought there must be a medical emergency for your dad to let you take a day off school.”
I rotate in front of him. “As you can see, there isn’t.”
Troy puts the ice-cream tub behind his back. “So you don’t need Dr Daly’s magic remedy then?”
I wrestle the tub from him. I’m at least ten centimetres taller than Troy, so it’s not that hard.
He gives in easily. “You might as well have it. Happy Birthday for yesterday.”
The ice-cream has a twenty dollar art supply voucher taped to the lid. Now that’s a proper present.
“Thanks a lot, man.” I take the tub to the kitchen and grab two spoons. I hand one to Troy. “Help yourself.”
Troy screws up his nose. “Chocolate ice-cream this early?”
“Why not?”
Troy shrugs, takes a spoonful and shovels it into his mouth. “My olds wouldn’t let me eat this sort of stuff for breakfast.”
“Yeah, well my old isn’t here – and even if he was, he couldn’t stop me.”
Troy shifts in his seat. “So, how was your birthday?”
I jam the lid back on the ice-cream and shove it in the freezer. “We’ll be late for school if we don’t get a move on.”
Troy puts his stethoscope in his backpack and follows me out the door. “Where were you yesterday?”
“Where were you?”
Troy scratches his head. “At school.”
“I didn’t see you there.” I slam the front door shut.
Troy looks so confused it’s hard for me to keep a straight face. “You weren’t at school,” he says.
“Yes, I was.” I lope off down the road. “You must have been too preoccupied with the gorgeous Tina Armstrong to notice.”
Troy takes off after me. “She is a bit distracting.”
“What are you doing after school tonight?”
Troy breathes hard as he tries to keep up. “What do you want to do?”
I wait for him to catch me. “Outdoor art.”
“Cool. I’m in.”
Everyone needs a best mate like Troy – up for anything. Doesn’t ask questions, just goes with it. We arrange to meet back at his house after school. I have to go home first to get my supplies.
I grab two mouthfuls of chocolate ice-cream and race out carrying a box of spray cans.
Troy’s sister Angie stares at me when I walk in the door, but she doesn’t say anything. Troy already has his gear stashed in his backpack. I’ve always gone for the box option – ever since a red can leaked and it looked like I’d decapitated a small animal in my pack.
Troy points out the door. “To the water tank.” He gallops down the driveway like a pretend medieval knight. I run after him. In spite of the fury that’s been bubbling and seething inside me since yesterday, Troy makes me laugh – always has.
The water tank’s at the top of Mather’s Hill. It’s a hard climb, especially carrying a cardboard box full of spray cans.
Troy nudges me with his pack. “So, how come you wagged?”
I’m still not ready to tell him.
I grip the box tighter and clamber onwards. “You shouldn’t have to go to school on your birthday.”
Troy punches me on the shoulder. “Yeah, I reckon you’re right.”
The water tank pokes out on the top of the hill. Apart from Mather’s Hill, Brabham is completely flat. When you stand on the hill, you see houses dotted everywhere like hundreds and thousands on a piece of fairy bread. The river runs through them like treacle. That’s our other favourite place to hang out – at the biggest waterhole on the river, where the rope swing used to be – the place where we chill out in summer.
We dump our pa
ints on the ground about five metres from the water tank so we can get a look at our whole canvas.
“What are we doing here?” Troy has a yellow can in his hand.
“Painting.”
“Why?”
I want to tell him about Mum, but how do you introduce a subject like that out of the blue? Do you start with the first lie or the last one? How do you say that your dad has kept your mum from you all your life? How do you do it without crying?
I pick up a can and hold it against my face. It’s smooth and cool on my skin. I love the smell of paint – and being in control of the can. It’s hard to do fine work, but cans have impact. And that’s what I’m looking for.
I paint flames, licking up over the top of the concrete tank.
“Awesome,” says Troy.
I stand back to look. “Yeah, but it needs more detail.”
Troy picks up a can of green from my box and puts a sharper nozzle on it. He shows me how to etch around the orange with quick, firm strokes. It’s all in the can control and knowing which colour and nozzle to use. Now the flames look even more brilliant against the green.
With each stroke, a small piece of anger seeps out through my fingertips.
“So, who did you pick for your History assignment?” asks Troy. “Michelangelo?”
“Close, Leonardo da Vinci. What about you?”
Troy makes his eyes bulge and walks stiff-legged towards me. “I was thinking of Frankenstein.”
I back away. “He wasn’t a real person.”
Troy says in a deep robot-like voice, “How do you know?” He falls on the ground, laughing.
“Has Mrs D given it the okay?”
Troy winks at me. “No, but I’ll talk her into it.”
“Do you reckon she’ll go for Leonardo?”
Troy nods. “’Course she will. Leonardo’s perfect – he’s famous, real and dead.”
I laugh. “And totally awesome. I’ve been finding out all sorts of stuff about him.”
Troy picks up a can of paint, lid still on, and aims it at me. “Is that why you wagged yesterday – to do your homework? Tell me or I’ll shoot.”