Letters to Leonardo

by Dee White

Not sure where this journey’s going to end but I have a bad feeling about what happens next.

  Still, you and me, Leo, we have to know the truth – it’s who we are.

  Not sure Mrs D is going to get this letter either.

  Matt

  8

  Dave walks into my room, carrying a black folder in his hand. “You think this is my fault, don’t you?” he says.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Maybe. You figure it out.”

  Dave drops the folder on the bed in front of me and leaves. Inside is a newspaper article from the Denyer Times. I vaguely remember living in a place called Denyer before we moved here.

  It’s a front-page story with a photo of me, aged about five. I’ve seen one just like it in Dave’s photo album – the one that doesn’t have pictures of Mum.

  A huge headline screams, Mother Abandons Son in Shopping Centre.

  It can’t be true, can it?

  A 28-year-old woman was taken into custody today after abandoning her son in the Denyer Shopping Centre. A witness said she saw the woman leave her young boy on a wooden seat and walk off. “I thought she was just going to look in a shop window,” said jeweller Marg Johnson. “I was on my own and couldn’t leave my store. Some customers came in and I got distracted. After they’d left, I looked out and saw that poor little boy still sitting there. No sign of the mother.”

  I start to sweat. Memories and images rush through my head like a high-speed slide projector showing snapshots of my life.

  I’m a little boy again, watching Mum walk away. I’m not afraid at first. But then she doesn’t come back. A big lady with blond hair takes me into her shop. She offers me a lolly, but I don’t want it. I want Mummy.

  I want to stop reading but I can’t.

  Police sources say the woman has been charged and will undergo psychological evaluation pending her trial. The boy’s father was too distraught to comment.

  Suddenly, I remember things about Mum: the invisible perfume aura that floated around her. When I was little that sweet smell made my tongue tingle.

  I loved the way she smelled, and her softness when she cuddled me on her lap.

  That day she took me into so many shops, buying me things I didn’t even ask for. We went to a shoe shop. I tried on blue runners and she bought heaps. The shop assistant packed them into little yellow cardboard boxes and put them into bags. There were too many to carry so we left a box at the shop.

  Mum bought me chocolate ice-cream – lots of it. I felt sick.

  “Sit down and rest while I look in some shops.”

  I was happy sitting on the seat but she never came back. A police officer took me to a police station. Dave came to collect me. He’d been running – he hugged me tight, his face was wet against mine.

  I turn the pages. The more I read, the more I remember.

  Mother Has a History of Abandonment

  … Mrs Pearson, a neighbour of the accused, stated in court that this isn’t the first time the boy has been left. “Six months ago, I heard crying next door. The front door was locked. I broke in through the side window. That poor boy was all alone, crying for his mummy. I had to call the father home from work. That woman didn’t turn up till two days later.”

  I remember; I remember falling asleep on the couch and waking up. I walked through the house, but I couldn’t find Mum. I remember Mrs Pearson cuddling me till Dad came home.

  Senior Constable Smithers, a police officer involved in the shopping centre case said, “The mother was cautioned when the boy was just two years old for leaving him in a locked car outside a supermarket. She has a history of this type of behaviour and it seems to be escalating.”

  The last article shows Mum crying on the steps of the courthouse. There’s a paragraph underneath the picture.

  After a psychological evaluation of the mental state of the accused, Dave Hudson has been awarded full custody of his only son. The boy’s mother, Zora Hudson has been granted supervised access.

  Psychological evaluation? Mental state? Supervised access? What does all that mean? There’s nothing in any of the papers to say what happened to Mum after that.

  It must have been after the court case that Dave told me Mum had died that day at the shopping centre – the last time I saw her.

  I lie on my bed and focus on a spider crawling across the ceiling. I’m staring at it when Dave comes in and sits on the bed next to me. “Are you okay?”

  I can’t stop shaking. Guess it must be shock – the teachers talked to us about that in Phys Ed.

  “Are you okay, Matt?”

  The words creep out of my mouth. “Think so. I’ve been remembering stuff.”

  Dave puts his hand on my shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

  “No?”

  “She couldn’t cope. She didn’t dump you because she didn’t love you. She just couldn’t handle life.”

  “Don’t think I can either, right now.”

  “Don’t be hard on yourself, Matt. This is a lot to deal with.”

  You’re telling me?

  Dave puts a hand on my shoulder. “I understand about the water tank now. What you did wasn’t right, but I understand why you did it.”

  I shrug his hand away. “Yeah! Well, I still don’t understand what you did. She was my mother!”

  “I’m sorry I lied to you, Matt. I really thought it was best.”

  The problem is, Dave, you just kept lying.

  I turn away from him and put my hands over my ears.

  Dave leaves me lying on my bed with the black folder that tells me so much, but answers so little.

  Mum left me in a shopping centre for anyone to find. Why would she do that? Was I such a bad kid?

  What about the psychological evaluation? Is she mad?

  My head pounds. A thick haze of memories is spinning around in my head. Fear thumps inside my chest.

  Dear Leonardo,

  I was looking at a book Troy got me from the library, Leonardo da Vinci: The Complete Paintings.

  It would be so amazing to paint with another artist, like that picture you did with Verrocchio – the one of Tobias.

  Love that pic. Good, but bad too. When I looked into the googly eyes of that fish you painted, I thought that’s just how I feel, hanging by a painful thread – no escape.

  Is that how you felt when you painted it? Were you trapped? Tied to Verrocchio? Wanting to branch out on your own?

  Your dog in that picture looks like it was added in later. Painting in layers lets you hide stuff – mistakes.

  What does each layer of paint really tell us about you? I wish I could talk to you, Leo. Really know you. You were such a genius. Maybe you could help me sort out the mess in my head.

  Matt

  9

  I grab three new spray cans from the garage and head to Troy’s house.

  Troy, as always, is willing to come along for the ride.

  When we get to the tank, I tell Troy about Mum dumping me at the shops – and all the other dumpings – some I don’t remember at all.

  “Don’t reckon she ever wanted me.”

  “You don’t know that!” Troy looks at me intently, like he needs me to believe what he’s saying. “You don’t know what was going on with her at the time.”

  “All I know is I need to vent.”

  I’m angry with Dave and his pathetic apology, and sad for me and Mum. What makes a mother ditch her kid? How could she think that would be best?

  It’s different for me, I thought she was dead. I don’t get it. Don’t get her.

  I’m adrift, like that piece of eggshell that falls into the cup when you crack the egg. It floats around on the top without a purpose and yet you can’t get it out.

  Troy reaches for a can. “I’m happy to help.”

  I scuff at the ground in front of the tank, sending fine dust into the side. “You know what PC Huggins said would happen if we painted the tank again,” I warn him.

  Troy shrugs. “W
e’ll smell that garlic coming a mile off. Have plenty of time to get away. And in any case, what’s the big deal? It’s not as if we’re doing any damage. We’re beautifying the place.”

  “Eco art,” I say.

  Troy takes the west side of the tank and I take the east, the one where the sun comes up.

  Once I have the spray can in my hand, all I want to do is paint. I take Mum’s card from my pocket and rest it against the tank. The sun’s starting to go down. I have to move fast. I spray huge sweeping arcs in deep ochre. The details are etched using a darker can, with a fine nozzle. I stand back to look. Not bad – but it doesn’t have the texture of Mum’s picture. You can get brightness with spray cans, but not detail – not the blending of colours that you get with a brush.

  The sky’s the hardest – getting the colour right, the shading, so that when you look at it from different angles, the picture changes – kind of like a hologram.

  Troy finishes his art. He’s into sci-fi and he paints an eagle with robot’s feet instead of talons. It’s cool.

  We’re sort of like Leonardo and Verrocchio painting together – only not working on the same piece.

  Troy looks at my side of the tank and gasps. “Wow! That’s awesome,” he says. “Your mum’s not the only one with talent.”

  “Wonder what else I got from her,” I mumble. “Those papers reckoned she was wacko.”

  “Everyone’s a bit wacko – even me.” Troy points a spray can at me and presses the nozzle. I duck and run off around the tank with him chasing me.

  We collapse in front of the water tank, the almost- empty spray cans at our feet.

  “I look more like Mum. I’m nothing like Dave really, am I? I’m brown, he’s blond. My eyes are brown, his are blue.”

  “Does your Mum have a face like a cane toad as well?”

  I pick up a handful of dust and toss it at Troy. “Very funny.”

  Troy flicks back his curly hair. “I’m glad I don’t look like my olds.”

  “Can you be serious?”

  “Sorry, I’ll try.” Troy pokes out his tongue until it covers his top lip, and makes it look like he has a clown mouth.

  I try not to look at him. “Do you reckon I could be crazy like her? You’d have to be crazy, wouldn’t you, to leave a little kid alone in a car, and a house, and a shopping centre.”

  Troy jabs me in the ribs. “You’re mad, sometimes,” he says. “But you’re not crazy.”

  I wish for once he’d stop fooling around. I grab my cans and stand up. “This isn’t a joke, man. This is my life.”

  Troy gets to his feet too. “I know, but you have to chill. You can’t sort stuff out when you’re all worked up.”

  “Give me a break. Have you been reading Rosenbaum too?” I feel like chucking a can at him.

  “No, but my mum’s a counsellor, remember? Perhaps we could talk to her.”

  “I don’t know. Don’t know anything. How do you sort out a mess like this?”

  Troy won’t let it go. “You have to talk to your mum, ask her why she did it.”

  I know he’s right but the problem is, I have to find her first.

  I wag school again and spend the day going over my “Mum” lists, trying to think where she might be.

  • In another town?

  • In another state?

  • In another country?

  How am I going to find her? Google! I try Australian search then World search – but there’s nothing. It’s like Zara Templeton or Hudson or whatever she calls herself never existed. But she did. She’s my mother. I try other search engines, but still nothing! I yell my frustration. Punch the wall. But none of it helps. I need a break from all this. So I go into the lounge room to search for a loud action movie that I can run at full volume. I’m flicking through the channels with the remote control when Dave walks in from work.

  He sits down next to me. Doesn’t even ask me to turn the volume down. Rosenbaum must have got him onto the next phase – “try and be understanding”.

  “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” says Dave.

  How can I trust him? He seems to think I should just forget that he lied to me – pretend it never happened, forgive him for “protecting me” from my own mother. What a load of bull! She might have been a bit crazy back then, but she’s probably fine now, and I’m old enough to look after myself. Some kids leave home at fifteen.

  I turn the television off and fling the remote control onto the couch. “How will I know you’re telling me the truth?”

  “You’re going to have to start trusting me again some time.”

  Unlikely.

  Dave gets up and goes to the kitchen.

  I turn the television back on and keep flicking between programs until Dave yells, “Tea’s ready.” Just as the doorbell rings.

  Dave opens the door.

  A blast of garlic bursts into the house followed by PC Huggins, who shakes his finger at me like I’m about ten. “I’m not going to take things so lightly this time, Matt Hudson.”

  I sit at the table and start winding noodles around my fork.

  “You’ve been at the water tank again haven’t you, young vandal?”

  “Steady on,” says Dave. “You don’t know it was him.”

  The PC folds his arms across his large chest. “You going to deny it?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, well last time you got away with it, but not this time.”

  Dave moves in front of me as if he’s trying to be my shield. “Ease up, Clem, he’s just a kid.”

  The PC laughs. It’s a cranky staccato sound, like a camel with hiccups. “Just a kid? He’s bigger than you, Dave, and old enough to know better.”

  “He’s having his tea, Clem. Can you give it a rest?”

  The PC scowls at me. “He’s going to be charged.”

  Dave takes a deep breath. The muscle twitches under his left eye, but his voice is calm. “At least let me talk to Matt first. Get to the bottom of it.”

  The PC looks at his watch, then pats his stomach.

  Dave gently guides him to the front door. “You go home and eat. I’ll bring Matt down to the station after work tomorrow. Is that okay? We’ll sort it out then.”

  I don’t think the PC is all that happy, but everyone in town likes “Honest Dave”, so he lets us get away with it – for the time being.

  His parting words are: “It’s vandalism, Dave! Charges will be laid.”

  Dave nods as he shuts the front door. “Yeah, rightio, Clem. Like I said, we’ll sort this out tomorrow.”

  After the PC leaves, Dave sits next to me and has his tea, as if nothing happened. I can’t believe he’s so calm. He has definitely been consulting Rosenbaum. I wonder if there’s a chapter in Sons and the Single Parent on how to help your son deal with the fact that you’ve lied to him for the last ten years.

  While we wash the dishes, Dave says, “We’ll talk about the water tank tomorrow. After we’ve both had a good night’s sleep.”

  I shrug. “Whatever.”

  Dear Leonardo,

  Painting huge is such an adrenaline rush, isn’t it?

  Did you find it hard to go back to the small stuff?

  Maybe that’s why you went on to your inventing – and sculpture?

  I’m not sorry I did the water tank. Just hope Troy doesn’t cop it.

  If you have talent, why hide it?

  Matt

  10

  I’m totally blown away to see a photo of my painting on the front page of the local paper with the headline: Welcome Facelift for Old Water Tank. Unreal! Welcome facelift? Someone actually likes my art. Down at the bottom of the page there’s a phone poll so you can ring in and say what you think of it.

  On page three, there’s a photo of the mayor standing next to Troy’s pic. According to the paper, the mayor wants to know who the artists were and he says he “can’t see any reason why the murals can’t stay”.

  Just before I head off to school, I get a p
hone call from Steve Bridges – he recognised my work.

  “Congratulations on your great painting, Matt,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  “Have you thought any more about my art classes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If money’s an issue,” he says, “we can deal with that.”

  “It’s not the money. It’s Dave. He doesn’t like me painting.”

  Up until now, I always wondered why Dave was so negative about my art. Now I know. It’s because of Mum. It’s because she paints. He’s scared too – scared I’ll turn out like her. Man, I have to get to the bottom of this.

  “Gotta go, Steve.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll talk to your dad myself. See if I can change his mind.”

  Fat chance! “Thanks. That would be great.”

  At school Troy has already told anyone who will listen that he and I were the ones that painted the water tank.

  First period is History. “Interesting artwork, boys,” says Mrs D.

  Troy stands and bows, and tries to drag me up with him, but I stay in my seat. Everyone laughs.

  Mrs D focuses on me. “Perhaps if you applied the same dedication and creativity to your History assignment, Mr Hudson, you might make more progress.”

  I nod. Whatever.

  All day Troy makes the most of the celebrity status – tells Tina that we’re going to be famous artists one day. She just rolls her eyes and walks off. I spend most of the time thinking about Mum, wishing she could see my painting and wondering if she’d reckon I’m any good.

  After school Troy and I sit at my kitchen table chomping on cheese sandwiches with bread. That’s what Dave always calls them. He always whinges because I cut the cheese so thick.

  “What are you going to do about your mum?” Troy says, his teeth yellow with cheddar.

  “Maybe I should just forget the whole thing. There must be a reason she stayed away till now.”

  Troy cuts another slab of cheese. “It probably took her all this time to find you.”

  “Can’t have looked too hard.”

  Troy sticks the cheese on bread and slaps another slice on top. “Maybe she wasn’t allowed to see you. Didn’t she go to court after that business in the shopping centre?”