by Dee White
I shrug and head to my room.
“Don’t you care that you could have ruined my reputation?”
“You did that all by yourself.”
I slam the door behind me.
The last thing I hear before I put the music up loud is Dave’s plaintive voice. “We’ll have to talk about this sooner or later.”
Dear Leonardo,
This is the letter Mrs D says I have to write to pass Year Nine History. So, here goes.
We wouldn’t travel by cart from Vinci to Florence – like you did when you were my age. Where I live, the horse and mule have been made redundant as a form of transport. We drive cars – the ones that you did plans and drawings for way back when. Today we build them and ride in them.
Not being married mattered a lot more in your day. You could never be Ser Piero’s heir because he wouldn’t marry your mum. So he apprenticed you to Verrocchio, which ended up being a good choice. Your talent would have been seriously wasted if you never got to paint.
In my country, these days, people don’t care if your parents are married or not – in fact, heaps of people don’t even bother; they just live together.
At one time you lived with your grandparents and Uncle Francesco who farmed olives and grapes. We still farm them today. Who knows why? Olives taste foul.
Apparently, you used to have heaps of marble masons and carpenters in your town. We don’t have anybody in Brabham who builds out of stone, and the only carpenter is Ben McGraw who has never been quite the same since he fell off the church roof.
Matt
Dear Leonardo,
This is the letter I really wanted to write.
It’s strange, but I feel like you get what I’m going through – like you understand.
Getting taken from your mum sucks. Bet they never fooled you with their lies though, Leo. You just have to look at your paintings to know, “There’s someone who sees right to the heart of everything”.
Wish Mum could have seen my water tank mural – and given me an artist’s opinion.
If she walked through the door now, at least she’d be able to explain why she decided to opt out of my life for the last ten years. And it’d be good for me too. I’d be able to ask her all the stuff I need to know.
It was different for you, Leo. You went to live with your grandparents. You got to see your mum sometimes.
And so what if your parents weren’t married? Mine were – and it doesn’t seem to have done them (or me) much good.
Matt
I stand at my window. The doorbell rings. I listen to Dave talking to someone at the front door. “It’s a bit late for visiting,” he says.
I stare at Mum’s Uluru painting. “I need to find you,” I say aloud.
“Find who?” Troy appears in my bedroom doorway. He walks in, usual wide grin stretched across his freckled face.
“Sorry about before.”
“No worries. It’s forgotten.”
Troy picks up Mum’s card. “Hey, cool picture,” he says. “Who’s it from?”
I feel myself tense. I think about grabbing the card back from him. Then I realise it’s the easiest way – the only way I’m going to be able to tell him about the mess my life’s in. I sit on the bed and watch his face while he reads.
“Holy crap! I thought your mum was dead.”
“So did I.”
“So that’s why you’ve been wacko the last couple of days.” He passes the card back and mumbles, “I don’t know what to say.”
Even though I’m pretty wound up, I can’t stop myself from smiling. “That’d be a first.”
Troy pretends to look offended. “Have you told your dad about this? Is that why we didn’t get into too much strife about the tank?”
“Na, that was some deal he did with the PC.”
“So, what did he say about the letter?”
The anger boils inside me again. “Haven’t told him yet. Why should I? He’s kept her from me for the last ten years. This is all his fault.”
“It must have been a hell of a shock.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“Why haven’t you said something?”
I lie back on the bed, feeling defeated. “I dunno. I just want a normal life like yours.”
Troy laughs. “You reckon I’m normal?”
“Well, maybe not, but your family is. You’ve got a mum and dad who are really into each other. And you’ve got a sister and grandparents – the whole ‘happy family’ thing.”
Troy gives an exaggerated yawn. “Might seem ideal, but they’re about as exciting as one of your dad’s self-help books. Nothing ever happens in our house – not unless I make it.”
I sit up and lean against the wall. “At least your parents don’t lie to you.”
Troy picks up a rubber and sharpener off my desk and starts juggling them. “So what are you going to do now?”
“I dunno.” My voice is croaky. “She hasn’t tried to contact me for the last ten years.”
Troy stops juggling. “She must have had her reasons. I reckon you should talk to her and find out what they were.”
I pull the Mayberry Girls’ Grammar pin out of my drawer and scratch the timber with it. “I dunno.”
“She sent you the card. Maybe she wants to get to know you.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, ’course.” Troy starts pacing the room. “This is unbelievable. The only thing that goes missing in our house is socks. We don’t lose family members.”
I stab the front of the drawer with the Mayberry pin. “Hilarious, Troy – not.”
“Sorry, mate, but this sort of stuff never happens to me. If you go looking for her, you can count me in.”
I hand Troy the email from Scott Reesborough and tell him what Scott told me on the phone about Barry Hill.
“I’m thinking of checking out this Barry Hill place. What do you reckon?”
Troy nods. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Scott reckons she had some sort of a breakdown after Year Twelve. You don’t think she’s a nutter, do you?”
Troy looks at me as if I’m the one that’s crazy. “I’d have a breakdown too if my parents made me do Year Twelve. We can go there tomorrow, if you want.”
“Thanks, mate. But I reckon I’d rather go on my own.”
“Come off it. This is the most action I’ve had all year. You can’t shut me out now.”
“Yeah, well too bad. This is something I have to do by myself.”
Troy shrugs. “Suit yourself. But I want to know everything when you get back.”
Dear Leonardo,
I’m pretty freaked at the idea of seeing my mum after all this time. What if she never recovered from her breakdown?
No, she must have – she married Dave and had me, so she must have got better.
Is finding your long-lost mother a good idea or not?
Did it work for you?
Dumb I know, asking you all these questions. But I reckon you’ve got as much chance of giving me the answers as anyone else.
Doesn’t say much, does it?
Matt
6
Sons and the Single Parent
ROSENBAUM TACTIC NUMBER 23
If your son refuses to talk to you about a problem, act as if nothing is wrong. Don’t try and force the issue.
That’s Dave’s plan for today. At breakfast, he says nothing about PC Huggins, the water tank, Dave Hudson is a liar or the ransacked bedroom that we never discussed either.
“Have a good day at school,” Dave says cheerily as he saunters out the door.
I don’t look up from the breadcrumb maze I’m making on my plate. I am not going to school. Why should I? Why should I do anything Dave wants me to do? Besides, school and listening to Mrs D and her sarcasm is a waste of time – a waste of minutes and hours I could be using to keep searching.
I’m the only one who gets off the bus at Barry Hill. The car park’s empty. It’s not like a normal hospital where ki
ds and parents spill out of cars clutching cellophane-wrapped flowers.
The only other person in sight is a boy in a blue shirt with a red baseball cap on backwards, dragging a billycart to the top of a concrete path that leads to the car park. He pushes off and disappears down the hill.
I walk slowly towards the hospital. The grass needs a good mow, like the lawn at home. That’s what happens when you only have one parent and they work practically seven days a week. I offered to do the mowing once, but Dave reckoned, “The lawnmower’s too temperamental. Unless you know its habits, it’s likely to take your leg off.”
“Whatever.” It wasn’t like I was desperate to mow the lawn – I never asked again.
A red stone path meanders up to Barry Hill. The main hospital wing is two storeys high with an attic at the top. Wonder who they keep up there.
As I climb higher, the sun comes out, casting my shadow on the concrete. Huge steps lead to double wooden doors that are covered in cobwebs and the shell of a centipede hangs upside down from one thread.
I shiver.
Maybe I should have let Troy come after all.
I try to open the massive dungeon-like doors. They’re locked and won’t budge. I go cold all over. Is Mum in there? How can you seriously expect anyone to get well in a depressing place like this?
Dear Leonardo,
Seems like the mystery of Mum could be like the truth behind your Mona Lisa – impossible to discover.
Went to Barry Hill and it was closed. I don’t mean “door shut, come back tomorrow” kind of closed. I mean gone. There is no Barry Hill “psychiatric facility” any more.
Haven’t been any patients there for eight years.
So, when it comes to finding Mum, I’m back where I started, which is nowhere!
Where do I go from here? Who knows? Everyone has a theory on what’s behind Mona Lisa’s smile. That’s what I need – a theory on how to find lost mothers who you thought were dead!
Your Lisa’s not the only one who’s an enigma.
Wish me luck, Leo.
Matt
I spend the rest of the day eating chocolate ice-cream, doodling on my scrap paper sketchpads and making lists:
WHY FIND MUM?
• She’s my mother.
• Need to know why she left me.
• Need to know if she still wants to be my mother.
• Need to know where I come from.
• Need to know why Dave lied.
• Need my mother in my life.
• Need to know if she still loves me.
WHERE TO LOOK FOR HER
• Psych hospital (Been there, didn’t enjoy that!)
• Old school friends
• Relatives (like Aunt Alexa)
• Last resort – Dave!
POSSIBLE OUTCOMES OF FINDING HER
• She won’t want to know me.
• She will want to know me.
• She comes to live with me and Dave.
• I go and live with her.
Conclusion: I’ll go crazy if I don’t find out the truth.
I eat more ice-cream and think about what to do next.
Troy races in after school, backpack flung over his shoulder.
“What’s she like?” he asks.
“Dunno, never saw her.”
“Well, that’s good isn’t it? Maybe she’s all better?’
My voice is flat – empty like Barry Hill. “She wasn’t there. Nobody was. Place is closed down.”
“What?”
“Nobody lives there any more.”
Troy laughs. “You’re kidding.”
I wish I was.
“So, what are you going to do?” Troy slaps his backpack at my feet.
“Dunno.”
“There must be some other way to find her.”
“Maybe. Mum had a sister, you know? My aunt Alexa.”
“Why don’t you just ring her?”
“Can’t! I don’t even know her last name – even though she’s my aunt. She just sort of disappeared out of my life after we moved – apart from the annual birthday card.”
Troy frowns. He picks up Mum’s card. “Maybe you can find your mum through her art.”
“How?” Uluru jumps out of the thin gold border – so real you can almost touch it. I wonder what it was like for Mum, living with someone like Dave who thinks that painting is something you only do when you want to sell your house. Is that why she left him/us? Because Dave was aesthetically challenged?
“You’re going to have to talk to your dad,” says Troy. “He must know more about her.”
“Yeah, but how do I get him to talk?”
“Tell him the truth – that you know your mum’s not dead.”
“I don’t think I’m ready for that.”
Troy stands firm. “You have to, mate. It’s the only way.”
I bite my lip.
“Want me to stick around while you do it?” asks Troy.
“No, thanks. This is between me and Dave.”
“Let us know how it goes.” Troy picks up his pack and strolls out the door.
Now that I’ve made the decision, I can’t wait for Dave to get home. I’ve hardly spoken to him for the last few days. He’s going to be so rapt that I’m actually talking to him again.
Until he finds out what I have to say.
7
I’m waiting at the kitchen table when Dave walks in the door. He grabs the milk from the fridge and sits across from me. We don’t really look at each other. We’re like two people posed to look a certain way – to give a certain impression. Father and son carefully arranged to appear as if everything’s okay between them.
It makes me think of the way the angels look at each other in Leonardo’s Baptism of Christ. And I realise how important art is to me – it’s such a huge part of my life – and how totally different I am to Dave.
I slouch in my chair, trying to fit my legs in the space between the seat and the floor.
Dave’s hands are joined in front of him, resting on the table.
“So how was your day, Matt?”
He has on his “probing father” look – the one where he tries to see the inside workings of my brain.
How can he act as if nothing has happened between us? As if I haven’t been ignoring him for the last few days?
I plan to play his “patient listener” game – get him to admit the truth. But I can’t hold it all in any longer. I blurt it straight out. “I know Mum’s not dead!” There, how does that bombshell grab you?
It grabs him – his face goes rigid – fragile and stiff like clay slurry after it dries. Is he going to pretend he didn’t hear me? He twitches in his seat. He blinks. I read a body language article once that said people who blink when they’re talking to you aren’t telling the truth.
I look him right in the eye. The anger keeps me cold. “No more lies, Dave. Don’t say anything, if you’re not going to tell me the truth.”
“Uh …”
“I need the truth.”
Suddenly, he slumps over the table and starts to cry. His “Honest Dave” face crumples red. “Smiling Dave” cries loud, gulping sobs.
I’ve never seen Dave – Dad – cry. It melts a sliver of ice inside me, but I have to stand firm. Have to find out.
Now I feel like he’s the kid. I hate seeing him this upset and I want to tell him it’s all right – only it’s not. I don’t trust myself to speak – don’t know what to say.
Then I get mad all over again. Is this Dave’s way of avoiding the whole issue? Is this his way of getting out of telling me the truth?
I fling back my chair. “Can’t you be straight with me for once?”
I get to the doorway. I’m crying now, red-hot anger pouring out of me like volcanic perspiration.
“Matt, wait!”
“Why? So you can tell me more lies?”
“We need to talk.”
I go back to my chair, but I don’t sit down again. I stand
over him. I want him to feel as small as I felt inside when I discovered the truth. “Bit overdue, don’t you think?”
He nods. “I don’t blame you for being angry, Matt. Every day I’ve had to keep this from you. Every day it’s sickened me. But I had no choice.”
I snort. “Had no choice! You’re always saying, ‘We all have choices in life’. Isn’t that what your beloved Rosenbaum says? That’s what you’re always telling me, anyway.”
Dave’s face is pale, his eyes unusually bright. His voice is soft, not so certain. “You were little. It was for your own good. I had to protect you.”
“From what? My own mother!”
He seems to have shrunk in his chair, like everything has drained out of him and been replaced by fear.
“What was she, an axe murderer?”
“No, but–”
“So, why did I need protecting?”
“You were just a small child–”
“Yeah, well, in case you didn’t realise, I haven’t been a small child for years. What did she do that was so bad?”
“Sit down, Matt. We need to talk this through.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“Suit yourself.”
Unexpectedly, I’m hit by the urge to throw up. Can I handle the truth? What if my mother didn’t want me? What if she never wanted me?
I make it to the toilet just in time, kneel over the bowl and heave my guts out.
Dave comes to check on me. “Are you okay?”
“What do you reckon?”
The door squeaks as he leans against it. “We can do this another time, Matt.”
“No.” I feel more vomit rising.
“I’ve got something to show you. It’s in the office safe.” Dave jiggles his car keys nervously. “I’ll be back in about half an hour. We’ll talk then, okay?”
I nod. The front door slams and the car starts. What’s so important that he keeps it in the office safe? What’s so important, he never wanted me to know about it?
Dear Leonardo,
My life is layers of paint. Things keep getting peeled back and it’s hard to know what’s going to be revealed next.
Lies, lies and more lies?