Letters to Leonardo

by Dee White

  “I see.” The woman reaches into the boot, picks up the TV and thrusts it at me. “You’d better have it back then.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I mumble.

  I carry the TV back to the house. Maybe I should have just let it go. For once Troy doesn’t have anything to say. His mouth and eyes are like egg rings.

  When I get to the front door, Mum confronts me, hands on hips, her face creased with confusion.

  “What are you doing with that?” she asks.

  “It’s mine, Mum.”

  She looks surprised. “But that lady was so lovely. I thought you’d want her to have it. I’m getting you a new one anyway.”

  “It was practically new, Mum. Dad got it for me last Christmas.”

  Mum’s hands slip off her hips. “Was it?” she says. For a moment she looks puzzled then her face brightens again. “Well, I want you to have one that I bought for you. I’m going to get you all new stuff.”

  The kitchen table is set up on the front lawn. My telescope’s still there and my digital camera. Not much of my stuff has gone.

  Mum’s acting so strange. I want to ask her what she gave away, but I don’t want to make her mad. “Garage Giveaway just started?” I ask.

  She nods. “But it was going so well. I gave your iPod to a lovely young boy. He was thrilled. Wanted the telescope too, but couldn’t carry it on his bike.”

  Shame about that!

  “So what else did you give away?”

  “A couple of your father’s daggy old suits.”

  No loss there.

  “Anything else?”

  “Not that I can think of. But it doesn’t matter. Like I told you, out with the old, in with the new.”

  “But who’s going to pay for it all?”

  Troy picks up my telescope and starts to carry it back into the house.

  Mum looks at me crossly. “You sound just like your father.” She pouts. “But since you ask, I’m going to pay for it.”

  “What with? I thought you didn’t have any money.”

  “Not yet. But I will. The National Gallery’s going to buy two of my new paintings.”

  I haven’t thought of that. Of course she’ll have money if she sells some of her work. I want to be happy for her, so I paste on an enthusiastic smile. “Really? That’s fantastic! Which ones?”

  “Well, they haven’t exactly signed on the dotted line yet,” Mum says quickly. Then she smiles at me. “But I’m sure they will – when they see them.”

  “What new paintings?” whispers Troy, who is back outside, collecting more stuff. “She hasn’t done any since she’s been here, has she?”

  I glare at him and then turn back to Mum. “Come on, Mum,” I say. “We’d better put this stuff back.”

  I carry CDs and the stuff from my wardrobe into the house. Troy picks up a box full of plates and cups and follows me.

  It’s not until Mum’s gone that I realise I haven’t asked her where she was last night. Then again, I think I already know the answer.

  The next day at school Troy asks if Mum’s okay.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “That was seriously bizarre behaviour, man. Giving your stuff away like that. I’d be pretty ticked off with my mum if she tried that sort of thing.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, well, I don’t think she realised what she was doing.”

  “Your mum sure is a strange one.” Troy grins.

  I can’t see the funny side. It’s easy for Troy to smile. It’s not his mother. He’s always had the perfect family. The biggest issue he has to deal with is whether the Sunday roast is going to be lamb or pork.

  “Shut up, idiot. Who asked you?” I say.

  “Nice one, mate. What are you giving me a hard time for? I’m not the one who tried to sell your stuff. I’m only trying to help.”

  I don’t want his help! I just want everything to be normal. I want him to leave me alone, but I can’t say it. He’s been my best mate forever – he’s the one who helped me through all this stuff when I first found out she was alive. I turn away.

  “What’s with her, Matt? I thought everything was working out well for you guys.”

  “I dunno. I’ve never seen her like this.”

  “What, off her tree?”

  “Get stuffed!”

  We’re sitting behind the shelter shed. I pick up a stone and fling it at the wall. I wait for the thud.

  Troy stands up. “Sorry, mate.”

  I feel the tightness in my stomach. The feeling that has come and gone ever since I read those articles in the paper and the memories started coming back to me. I wish I could ignore it, but it’s like a thread that somebody is drawing tighter.

  There’s a voice in the back of my head that keeps whispering, “Maybe Dad’s right. Bringing Mum into our lives isn’t proving to be the best idea.”

  I lied to Troy. I have seen her like this before – not that long ago either. At the school play when she made her donation to the arts fund. Dave was right then too.

  “If it was me,” says Troy, “I’d be taking her to see someone. She needs help. You know my mum’s a counsellor – maybe she can talk to her.”

  “Mum has medication. Reckons she’s taking it, but I don’t know.”

  “Doesn’t look like it. That’s just plain crazy, giving all your stuff away.”

  I get to my feet and kick the dirt. The thread in my stomach pulls tighter. “She’s not crazy. Don’t you ever say she’s crazy!”

  Troy backs away from the flying dust. “I know she’s not crazy, mate. She’s sick. Mum says that people are born with this sort of stuff. It’s not their fault. Just that their brains are wired differently. Like Dr Frankenstein.”

  I kick the dirt harder. “She’s nothing like that. Frankenstein wasn’t even real.”

  “Okay, bad example. But I still reckon I’d be taking her to see someone if I was you.”

  “You’re not me, are you?” I pick up my pack and take off across the asphalt, with Troy’s quick steps echoing behind me.

  After school I have my second class with Steve Bridges. We talk about how to avoid symmetry in your painting.

  Symmetry is what you need in your life, but not in your artwork. I need my life to be even and balanced. But I wonder if it will ever happen. Even when I’m listening to Steve, my mind drifts back to the “Garage Giveaway” and how everything seems to be unravelling and getting more and more out of whack.

  It’s the bit Troy said about my mum being crazy that bothers me most – even though he didn’t mean it in a nasty way. I don’t want Mum to have anything wrong with her. I want my life to be normal for once – with two normal parents in it.

  But there’s that voice that keeps whispering that maybe Troy and Dad are right.

  Face it, Matt. Admit the truth. She’s stopped taking her medication.

  20

  Troy comes around after I get back from town. Neither of us say anything about the fight at school. It’s like it never happened.

  I make nachos and lemon cordial, and we sit at the kitchen table getting ready to start our Science assignment.

  “Luckily, your mum never got a chance to give this away,” Troy says, patting the kitchen table. “Or we’d have to do our homework on the floor.”

  “Shut up, will you?” I slam my books on the table.

  Troy stands up and goes to the window. “Hey, what’s that noise?” he asks. “Sounds like somebody having a rumble.”

  We peer out. Mum and Dad are standing on the front doorstep arguing – in public, for everyone to see! Great. Why not just tell the whole world how stuffed my family is? Put it on the internet or broadcast it over the radio?

  “You’ve got no right to touch our things,” yells Dad.

  “I don’t know what your problem is. Those suits wouldn’t fit you now anyway.”

  Dad’s face goes a deeper shade of red. “That’s not the point. They belong to me. They weren’t yours to sell.”

  “I didn
’t sell them – I gave them away.”

  “Whatever! They weren’t yours to do anything with.”

  Mum doesn’t seem to care that Dad is fuming. “They’re just possessions,” she says coolly. “They can be replaced.” She talks as if she hasn’t done anything wrong – or unusual.

  Her calmness gets Dad even more frustrated. His face goes a shade of purple. “How? With what money?”

  “Mine.”

  “Didn’t think the invalid pension paid that well.” Dad drips sarcasm.

  “For your information, I live off my paintings. I don’t take charity.”

  “You just give it.” Dad is still talking loudly, but he doesn’t seem so angry any more. As if he’s just realised there’s no point to this argument. “You’d better tell me what else you got rid of.”

  “Just a couple of things of Matt’s. He didn’t get aggro like you, though.”

  Dad sighs. “You’ve been nothing but trouble since you came here. I should never have let you back into our lives.”

  “It wasn’t your choice. Matt wants me here. He’s my son.”

  At that moment, I don’t want to be anybody’s son. I want to be a worm and slide into a hole in the ground – a really deep, dark hole where there’s nobody else but me.

  “I’ve had it with you,” Dad says. “You’ve stopped taking your stuff again, haven’t you?”

  I want to block my ears but I can’t help it – I have to know the answer. Troy looks as if he doesn’t want to be there either.

  “So what if I have?” Mum says defensively.

  “You promised Matt you’d take it.”

  Mum’s voice wafts back. “I know. But I’ve been doing so well. I thought I’d just cut back.”

  “You know it never works when you do that,” says Dad.

  Mum starts crying. “I just want to paint, that’s all. Is that a crime?”

  I feel so terrible when she says that. Am I wrong to want her to take tablets so she can be a “normal” mum? Am I trapping her like a caged bird – clipping her wings so she can’t fly away? I want her to choose me, but now she’s miserable and she’s making everyone else unhappy as well.

  Dad doesn’t give her any sympathy. “You should have thought about all that before you came here. Do you know what this is doing to your son?”

  “Yes.” Mum sounds shaky. “I was sure I’d be okay.”

  “Well, you’re obviously not, are you? Maybe you should just leave.” Dad’s words are clipped and hard.

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  I can’t stand it any longer. I run out the front door. “Stop it, both of you!” I yell. “She’s my mother and I want her to stay.”

  “But Matt, it’s not working,” says Dad.

  Mum takes my arm. “I’m so sorry, my darling. I’ll do better. I will.”

  I’ve only just found her. In spite of all the trouble she’s caused, I don’t want her to go. I think of what Troy said. “Mum, we can get you some help,” I say.

  Dad stands watching us, arms crossed.

  “I know you can.” Mum strokes my arm.

  “Please, Dad.”

  “Doesn’t look like I’ve got much choice.” He turns away, mumbles under his breath and shuffles off.

  When I get back inside Troy’s still sitting at the kitchen table. “Maybe you’d be better off without her,” he says.

  “She’s not your mum.”

  Troy shrugs. We both look at our Science books. Neither of us is in the mood for homework.

  “I guess I’ll take off then,” says Troy. “We’ll try this another time.”

  “Whatever.”

  Troy picks up his stuff and leaves.

  Mum walks in the door looking really pleased with herself. “Don’t worry about your father. He’ll come round. We’ll work things out.”

  I’m not so sure. Why is it impossible for both my parents to be happy at the same time? One is always making sacrifices for the other – and for me.

  “But what about your art, Mum? What’s going to happen if you can’t paint? I heard you telling Dad how much you needed to.”

  She smiles at me. “I need you more.”

  I try to sound confident. I have to believe in what I’m saying. “You’re right, Mum. We’ll work it out. I know we will.”

  It’s Dad I’m maddest with. Why can’t he just get over the fact that she’s here? He wants her to fail.

  Dear Leonardo,

  You can’t make people the way you want them to be – not like in a painting.

  Is that what painters get from their art – control over their subject?

  In a painting, you can give a person a green moustache or orange hair. You can make them appear any way you want. But in real life, you can’t control anyone.

  It’s funny when you’re little how your mum and dad seem like they have all the answers.

  But now I’m older and I’ve found out they don’t have them either – and what’s worse with my parents is that they’re the reason for most of my questions.

  Matt

  21

  Mum won’t answer the door. I know she’s there. I hear her walking up and down the hall.

  She’s a caged animal; pacing up and down, but going nowhere – like a tiger I saw at the zoo once. It strode relentlessly from one end of its enclosure to the other. It stopped every now and then to press its huge head against the thick glass where all the people were watching. It looked angry and scared. Everyone stepped back from the glass in a single wave of half sighs, half screams. It was as if they knew – and the tiger knew – that it could just put one huge paw through the glass and that would be that. I almost wished it would launch itself at the glass and make a break for freedom.

  But Mum’s not trapped like that, is she? She chose to send me that birthday card. She chose to come. I worry about her alone in that house. I worry about what she might do. What am I doing to her?

  Troy comes over, and we try and work on our Science assignment again.

  While we’re working, Mum arrives with a batch of chocolate biscuits she baked.

  “They used to be your father’s favourite,” she says.

  Troy and I look at each other. She seems normal.

  “Thanks, Mum. They smell great.”

  Troy stuffs one in his mouth. “Taste great too,” he says, mouth full of biscuit.

  Mum smiles. “Thanks, Troy. You can take some for your lunch tomorrow, Matty.”

  “Thanks, Mum.”

  “Sorry about the other day. I’m back on my medication and I’m not going off it again – not if it means losing you.” She strokes my hair, which is kind of embarrassing in front of Troy, but he doesn’t say anything – not even one of his smart comments. Mum has tears in her eyes.

  “It’s okay, Mum.” I take the biscuits from her and eat one. They’re pretty good. “Not sure these will last till tomorrow.” I wipe the crumbs off my lips.

  Mum smiles. “I’ll leave you boys to do your homework,” she says. “Talk to you later, Matt. Bye, Troy.”

  “Bye, Mum.”

  “See ya.” Troy stuffs another biscuit in his mouth.

  I watch Mum leave. “Looks like things are finally settling down.”

  Troy raises an eyebrow. “Maybe. People with sickness in their head don’t get fixed that fast – it’s not like putting on a bit of ice to make the swelling go down.”

  “But she’s back on her medication …”

  “As long as she keeps taking it.”

  “She will! Jeez, Troy, what’s got into you? You never used to be on such a downer about everything.”

  “I’m not. I just don’t want to see you get stuffed around again if she goes off her meds.”

  “She won’t.”

  She wouldn’t, would she? She knows that would wreck everything.

  Dad walks in from work and sees the biscuits. “Chocolate fudge cookies, my favourite.” He pops one into his mouth.

  “Yeah, Mum told us.”


  Dad tenses. “Your mother made these?”

  I nod. I think he’s going to make some bad comment about her, but he doesn’t.

  “They’re good,” he says. “I’m surprised she remembered.” He sits at the table and demolishes another biscuit. “So, how’s the homework going?”

  “Okay,” says Troy.

  “I’m running low on brain food.” I crunch on another biscuit.

  “Brain cells more like.” Troy laughs.

  I pick up my ruler and try to flick him on the shoulder, but he leans back – nearly falling out of his chair. Soon we’re chasing each other round the kitchen, and Dad’s watching us, laughing.

  Dear Leonardo,

  The Science assignment got me thinking about all the stuff you invented, like clocks and cranes and armoured tanks. You even got into parachutes and flying machines. Man, when did you find the time to do all that? I’m having enough trouble keeping up with school, art classes and family stuff.

  And you didn’t have computers, or electric paint mixers or cars or toasters or gas heating – or any of the things that make our life easier today.

  I read that when you did your apprenticeship, it took thirteen years. Ours only go for about three or four – and I reckon that’s bad enough.

  Troy and I finally got our Science assignment done. Didn’t get a great mark, but with everything going on around here, it’s amazing we even got it finished.

  Matt

  Dear Leo,

  Just had another lesson with Steve Bridges. It was awesome.

  I learned how to find the focal point in a painting.

  Never really thought about it much before, but there’s always one part of a picture that draws your attention first.

  With your paintings, it’s always the faces, the eyes, that tell so much. I try to really look at people now. I look at their eyes and try to work out their story – even with people I don’t know. I reckon that if I can understand people, I can paint them better.

  Have been trying this theory on my parents too. Not sure it’s working all that well yet. Must be because I know too much backstory already – I guess it gets in the way of gut instinct.

  Matt

  22