by Dee White
I could be your Baroncelli, the guy they hanged for murdering Lorenzo the Magnificent’s brother.
I’m hanging there, waiting for someone to let me down, stop the pain. But I don’t reckon they’re going to. Don’t reckon either of them will ever give the other a fair go.
Why can’t all this just go away?
Why can’t my life go back to what it was when I thought Mum was dead?
Matt
17
I’m packing my stuff for the weekend at Troy’s when there’s a knock at the door. “Just a minute.” I zip my pack and run down the hall.
Mum isn’t back at Hillton. She’s standing on my front doorstep.
“Hi, Matty. How are you?”
I don’t know what to say. “Mum, you can’t stay here.”
I’m relieved that she’s still around, but I can’t shake that feeling I got when I saw her through the window and she wouldn’t let me into her house. It’s like she’s two people – the one with the uncombed hair and sad eyes, and the woman with the big smile and bright eyes standing in front of me.
“I know. I’ve rented the house next door.”
My stomach tightens. I feel sick. “What does Dad think?”
“He’s not happy.”
“I’m amazed he even rented the place to you.”
“He didn’t. I went directly to the owners.”
I hang my head. “Sorry I couldn’t talk him into letting you stay with us.”
“Don’t worry, Matt. I’ll have more room to paint if I have a whole house to myself.”
I thought she wasn’t going to be painting because she’s on her medication. I don’t say anything.
I text Troy to tell him the good news and that I can’t make it for the weekend after all. I also ask him if he thinks she lied about taking her meds.
Troy texts back:
She never sed she woodnt paint just that da pills make it hard.
He’s right. Having Mum living next door means I can get to know her without Dad interfering for a change. He can’t stop me spending time with her, can he?
It’s nearly two weeks since Mum moved in next door. Every night I peer through her kitchen window and try to guess what she’s cooking for tea. Tonight the window is open and I smell burnt toast.
After tea she waters the plants and hums to herself. She sounds happy.
Dad walks through the door and sees me watching her. “Won’t last.” He flings his briefcase onto the floor.
“You’re just grumpy because she did something you didn’t want her to.” Dad rolls his eyes.
Yesterday when we went to check out the local art gallery, Mum told me that the real reason things didn’t work out between them was that Dad wanted to control her all the time.
Dear Leonardo,
Now that Mum has moved in, I feel like I’m stalking her – my own mother. Even when I’m not watching her, I’m wondering what she’s doing.
Is she thinking of me too?
Is she glad we found each other?
How do I stop her leaving again?
Matt
Next day when I get home from school, Mum’s singing “Don’t cry for me Argentina” so loudly that the neighbours are gazing over the fence. Mum doesn’t seem to care. Just goes on singing.
As I do my homework, I open my window to listen to the sound of her: the whoosh of the vacuum cleaner, the whirr of the washing machine and the click of high-heeled shoes on polished boards.
The phone rings. I pick it up. It’s Mum. “I’m baking a cake,” she says. “To celebrate us finding each other. Why don’t you come over in a half an hour or so?”
I finish my homework, then I head over.
I find her crying in the kitchen.
“I don’t know why it didn’t rise,” she sniffs, pointing to a chocolate cake that looks like a biscuit tin lid.
I pick the cake up. “Don’t worry about it, Mum. We’ll use it as a frisbee.”
That makes her smile. “It’s just that you’re always telling me what a good cook Troy’s mother is,” she says.
I put my arm around her. “She can’t paint like you.”
She pulls away. “But I don’t want to be a painter. I want to be your mother.”
“You are. It doesn’t matter if you can’t cook. I don’t care.”
She hugs me. “You’re so sweet, Matty. Just like your father when I first met him.”
When Dave and I are having tea, I tell him about the cake.
“You should have seen it. Poor Mum got so upset, but it was funny. It looked more like a chocolate pizza.”
Dad looks serious. “I hope she’s still taking her medication.”
“It was just a cake, Dad. You don’t have to make such a big deal.”
Dad shrugs. “I’m just wary. I’ve seen the signs before.”
Why does he have to pick fault with everything Mum does? She’s trying so hard. She even moved down here to be near me. What more does he want from her?
“Dad,” I say, exasperated, “she was upset because she wanted the cake to be perfect. That’s all.”
“We’ll see,” he says. “We’ve got your school play tomorrow. See what she gets up to there.”
The school play is Antony and Cleopatra. Tina is Cleopatra so Troy wanted to be Antony, but he forgot to audition. I reckon he’d have done all right as Antony. Instead, they gave the part to a scrawny guy in Year Twelve with a really boring voice.
The play is the first school thing of mine that Mum has been to. She looks amazing in this green and gold dress. The way she hovers, hesitating in the entranceway with the glare of lights behind her, makes her look kind of surreal – other-worldly, like Leonardo’s Benois Madonna.
Mum flits between the rows of parents and kids like a Christmas beetle. She seems so happy to be there – enjoying herself. I don’t reckon she gets out much.
Dad sits there: serious, watching her, like he’s waiting for her to slip up.
Even though Mum looks happy, there’s a sharpness in her eyes that makes her confidence seem fragile – like if you said something nasty to her, the facade would fall away. As long as nobody is mean to her, she’ll be fine.
Before the play starts, Mum chats to Mr Madden.
“Better see what she’s up to,” says Dad.
He takes off and comes out on the other side of the crowd.
Troy’s late as usual. I wave when he walks in. He ditches his parents and climbs over the rows of people to take an empty seat next to me.
“Do you mind if Mum sits there?” I ask. It’s the first school event ever that both my parents have been to.
“Sure!” Troy moves to the seat two spots away.
Mr Madden walks to the stage at the front of the room. When I look around I’ve lost sight of Mum.
Dave comes back. His face is flushed and anxious. “Where is she? Have you seen her?”
“Don’t worry, Dad. She’s probably just gone to the toilet. She’ll be okay.”
Dad stands fidgeting in front of the seat that has been left for him. “I knew this was a bad idea,” he says. “We should never have brought her.”
“I wanted her to come, Dad. She’s my mum.”
Mr Madden taps the microphone. “Quiet, please.”
People bustle around, taking the closest seat. Then I spot Mum. She climbs onto the stage and whispers something in the headmaster’s ear. Mr Madden smiles at her and turns back to the microphone.
“Before the performance starts,” he says, “I’m delighted to inform you that well-known artist, Zora, who happens to be the mother of one of our students, has just announced her intention to donate $10 000 towards our arts program. Thank you, Zora. I’m sure many students will benefit from your generous contribution.”
I clap loudly. So does Troy. Dad groans and sinks lower in his chair. “What’s wrong, Dad?” I ask.
“Matt, where do you think she’s going to get that kind of money from? You’ve been to her house. Does she see
m rich to you?”
I hadn’t thought about it. I just know I’m proud to have Mum back in my life. Why can’t Dad be happy for me? “Maybe she sold one of her paintings or something. You could be pleased for me, Dad. This is my school. And you’ve never done anything like that.”
Dad groans. “Don’t you see, Matt? This is just another one of her antics.”
“Why do you have to doubt everything she does?” People have started looking at us. Dad puts a finger to his lips and hisses, “Matt, I’ve known her a lot longer than you.”
Whose fault is that?
The play starts. A woman behind nudges me to be quiet. I ignore her. “Yeah well, I reckon it’s no wonder she didn’t stick around the first time. She wouldn’t have got much support from you.”
Dad puts his hand on my arm and says softly, “You don’t know, Matt, you were only a kid.”
At least Troy’s happy. He gets to perve on Tina all night. “Best play I’ve ever seen,” he says at the end.
“Would have been if my parents hadn’t ruined it.”
“Give them time,” Troy reckons.
But I’m not sure that’s going to make the slightest bit of difference.
Dear Leonardo,
Not sure that fame is all that it’s cracked up to be.
Doesn’t seem to have done much for Mum.
Probably just as well you never had kids – trying to learn to live in your footsteps.
I’m totally conflicted. I’m proud to be like Mum, but terrified on so many levels.
Matt
18
I’m a celebrity at school now. Great, just what I needed. Everyone wants to know about my “famous” mum.
Troy reckons it’s awesome. “Fame helps you land the best chicks,” he says.
I don’t want a chick. I’ve got so much to sort out already without making my life more complicated.
“How come we haven’t seen her at school before?” says Jacinta Riley.
“Where’s she been hiding?” asks Reece Burns.
I escape to the library at lunchtime and recess. Man, I’m sick of all their questions – and I can’t give them answers.
I’m sitting reading a book on Renaissance Art, when Lisel Power peeps out from behind the Countries of the World shelves and asks, “What’s it like having a mum who’s rich and famous?”
“No talking in my library,” says Mr Lancel, our “rules are rules” librarian.
Lisel Power pouts at him and walks out. Thanks, Mr Lancel.
After school Mum takes me into town to enrol me in Steve Bridges’s art classes – the ones I’m supposed to have started already, but haven’t got around to because of everything that’s been happening around here lately.
Steve is rapt to meet Mum. She really is famous. Steve says to me, “I can see where you get your talent from.”
Mum signs me up for the classes then goes for a look around Steve’s shop. She takes a set of twenty-four watercolours off the shelf. “Time we got you some decent paints,” she says as she hands over the money to Steve.
I pick the box up off the counter. “Thanks, Mum. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to. All those times I’ve missed out on being able to buy my little boy presents.”
I cringe. Steve laughs. “Not so little,” he says.
“What are you doing tonight?” Mum asks me.
I shrug. “Probably homework.”
“No, you’re not. I’m coming over. You need to learn how to use those paints the right way.”
“That would be great, Mum.”
“I’ll show you how to do a proper wash.”
Dad has never bought me paints, let alone encouraged me to use them. It really is going to be cool having Mum around.
Mum doesn’t show. It’s 10.30 and I am still sitting at the kitchen table, pretending I’ve got more homework to do, even though I finished it about an hour ago. I can’t concentrate. My eyes keep wandering out the window to her house. There are no lights on. She must have gone out – must have forgotten.
At first I’m really disappointed, then I start to wonder if maybe she did it deliberately. Maybe she’s testing my dedication. Maybe she’s testing to see if I have the guts to be a painter.
You do need guts for that sort of thing. You put your work out there for people to trash. It’s like laying a part of yourself on the ground for everyone to walk over.
I wonder if that’s why Leonardo never finished anything. Perhaps people rubbished his work before it was even completed.
I really don’t know if I’ve got the guts to be an artist.
Dear Leonardo,
What sort of a teacher was Verrocchio? Did he help you hang in there – even when people didn’t like what you painted?
I read somewhere that he was always broke because he had to feed and clothe his students. Don’t reckon any of our teachers are that dedicated.
Mrs D is being a regular pain at the moment. Wants to know where my “letters to Leonardo” are.
I’m not lying when I say I’ve written them – but seriously, most of this stuff is none of her business.
Matt
I accidentally let slip at breakfast that Mum promised to come over and didn’t turn up.
Dad has that look on his face again.
Mum rushes in after breakfast.
“I’m so sorry, Matty,” she says. “I had one of my terrible migraines.” That explains the darkness. “I should be right for tonight. That’s if you don’t have anything else on.”
While she’s here, Dad doesn’t say anything. He hides behind his newspaper and pretends he’s not listening.
But after she leaves, he says, “Don’t hold your breath, Matt. She’s notoriously unreliable.”
He should talk! He’s the one who lied to me for ten years.
I know she’ll come this time.
My first class with Steve Bridges is a blast. He’s mad about painting.
“I’d like to be an artist,” I say. “Maybe go to uni.”
“I went there,” says Steve.
“I bet you learned heaps.”
Steve laughs. “Learned more about how to party than how to paint.”
Steve works in the art shop so he can get his materials cheap. Reckons he’d rather be painting full time.
I wish I could be more like Steve. Make my own choices. He wears what he wants and has a ring through his nose. His hair is halfway down his back. He has to tie it back when he paints.
Dad doesn’t like long hair on men. Says most blokes don’t look after long hair properly and it ends up looking revolting. I reckon that’s one of the reasons he never wanted me doing Steve’s art classes. Worried he’d be a bad influence.
Mum’s not like that. She wouldn’t care if a person had two heads and a tail.
She said the other day that you have to look at people as if you are going to paint them. When you’re painting someone you can’t just paint what you see. You have to peel back the layers and look at what’s really on the inside. I like the idea of that.
I reckon that’s what Leonardo did with the Mona Lisa – only he didn’t quite reveal everything – or maybe his subject kept part of herself hidden.
Steve’s first lesson is about viewpoint. He says, “Before you even start painting, you have to decide which angle you’re going to take it from, and what part of the object you’re going to focus on.”
When I get home, my head spins with all the stuff Steve taught me.
I can’t wait to tell Mum all about it.
Only she doesn’t show again.
19
Next morning at breakfast, I’m in a foul mood. I reckon Dad knows why, but he doesn’t say anything. No apology from Mum this time. What’s her game?
It’s hard to concentrate at school. My mind keeps coming up with scenarios as to why Mum never showed – and none of them are good.
I drift through the morning in a haze. Don’t even react when Mrs D makes one of her d
ry comments about my incomplete History homework.
In Science we pair up to work on an assignment. Troy and I decide to do ours on the solar system.
“We could study black holes. I know a lot about them already.”
“Nah, I want to learn about the Seven Sisters.” Troy’s eyes light up. “I like women.”
“Too bad, I’ve had enough of women at the moment.”
In the end, we decide to do our assignment on Pluto, and how it got demoted from being a planet.
“Can we work at your place?” asks Troy.
“If you want, but don’t expect chocolate cake.”
“I won’t. But it should be quieter without Angie and her friends.”
As the school bus pulls up near our house, I see a row of cars parked outside.
“Hey look, Matt!” Troy points to a sign on the front gate. “Garage Giveaway. Free To The Needy.”
A woman gets out of a white Mercedes. She doesn’t look needy. She’s dressed in a white suit and she’s wearing dangling gold earrings.
Mum’s there, wearing one of her flowing dresses, smiling brightly. She looks like a celebrity greeting her fans – like she’s waiting for someone to roll out the red carpet.
She hands over my portable TV to the woman in the white suit.
I run forward. “Mum, what are you doing?”
“Having a Garage Giveaway. Isn’t it fun?” Mum’s face is shiny. “Out with the old. In with the new. That’s my motto,” she tells the woman carrying the TV.
Mum looks behind her at the peeling weatherboards and sunken verandah on our house. “A complete makeover. That’s what this place needs – inside and out.” She turns to Troy. “Don’t you agree?”
The rich lady is putting my TV into the back of her car. I run over to her. “Excuse me. Look, I’m really sorry. But that’s my TV.”
“Your TV? But that lady said I could have it.”
Doesn’t she think it strange that someone wants to give away brand-new stuff? I feel my face go red. I stare down at my shoes. “Mum didn’t realise it was mine.”