Letters to Leonardo

by Dee White

  It’s Saturday – the day Troy and I usually hang out together but today I’m shopping with Mum.

  Shopping brings back memories I’d rather not think about. Mum doesn’t seem manic at the moment, but I still can’t help worrying.

  She insists on taking me to buy new clothes. She only buys one pair of shoes and some runners for me, but I still worry. We go to a clothes store where she buys me a pair of jeans and a top.

  “Can you afford this, Mum?”

  “Don’t worry, Matt, I’m not going overboard.”

  I’m glad when we leave the shopping centre – together. But next stop is the doctor’s.

  “Hi, Zora, good to see you,” says the receptionist. “Doctor will be with you soon.”

  “Eva, this is my little fella, Matty,” she says (even though I’m at least thirty centimetres taller than her).

  “Pleased to meet you, Matt.”

  I can’t meet her eyes. Little fella. Just when I’m starting to have doubts, Mum pipes up and says, “Only joking. Big strapping lad, isn’t he?”

  Eva nods – she seems unsure what to say.

  I read mags while I wait for Mum – at least she is seeing someone.

  She comes out with the doctor, holding a script in her hand. “See, I’m still taking my medication,” she says.

  We go to the chemist to get her pills then to the pizza shop where Troy and I have arranged to meet.

  “Might treat myself to a massage. I’ll be back to pick you up in a couple of hours.” Mum hands me a twenty dollar note and drives off.

  “You and your mum seem to be getting along well,” says Troy.

  “Yeah, but I think she might be getting a bit carried away with the mother/son thing.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It takes a bit of getting used to. I didn’t see her for ten years and now she wants to be my new best friend.”

  Troy pretends to cry.

  I punch him on the shoulder. “As if that’s going to happen.”

  “True. Nobody could live up to my talents, could they?”

  Troy puts on his Frankenstein face and I can’t help laughing.

  I take a bite of the barbecue chicken pizza that’s just been delivered to our table.

  “I thought you loved having your mum around.” Troy says, his mouth full of pizza.

  “I guess I need a bit of space, that’s all.”

  “That gallery opening she took you to last week was pretty awesome.”

  “Yeah, but it’s the doctor’s appointments and shopping and all the other stuff she wants me to do with her – it’s just too much.”

  “Why don’t you talk to her about it?”

  “I can’t. Don’t want to upset her – she might go off the rails again.” Melted cheese drips from my fingers.

  Troy hesitates. “Yeah, it is a bit of a worry. No normal mum would expect their fifteen-year-old son to hang out with them.”

  “You only think that because you know she has this bipolar thing.”

  Troy pushes a pizza crust around the plate. “That’s not true.”

  “Maybe she just wants to make up for lost time.”

  Troy puts the crust in his mouth and talks through pizza chunks. “Yeah, but she needs to get a life.”

  Dear Leonardo,

  I’m starting to think that Mum and I are like your Lady with the Ermine. I’m Mum’s pet. Maybe that’s all I was to her when I was a kid. Like the Christmas puppy that people buy as an accessory to carry around for everyone to admire – then dump it when it stops being cute and cuddly.

  She’s definitely starting to suffocate me – and it’s not because of motherly love.

  She wants me with her all the time. Doesn’t even seem to care what’s going on in my life. If I try to tell her how Mrs D is picking on me or that Troy and I had a fight, she just changes the subject. She makes a big fuss of me, pats me, gives me food then puts me out for the night.

  Dad seems to have taken a step back from the action. Troy says he’s letting me work things out for myself. I don’t mind this new Dave – one who doesn’t pick up a book every time there’s an issue – one who acts as if he trusts me.

  What do think, Leo? If dads can change, surely mums can too?

  Matt

  23

  I’m on the way home from school, when I get a text from Dad: Meet me @ Mums.

  I show it to Troy. “That’s strange. Dad never finishes work early,” I say.

  Troy shrugs and I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Something’s wrong. Something’s happened.”

  “Chill,” says Troy. “Could be anything. Maybe it’s your Mum’s birthday.”

  “Don’t think so.” I realise I don’t actually know when my own mother’s birthday is.

  My house comes into view from the bus window. There’s an ambulance next door. I leap off the bus, jumping all the steps in a single bound.

  “Call me,” yells Troy out the bus window.

  Dad meets me at the front door. I can hear murmuring voices (must be the ambos) coming from the kitchen.

  “What’s happened? What’s happened to Mum?”

  “Take it easy, Matt.”

  “What’s happened to Mum? Can I see her?”

  Dad speaks carefully, as if he’s trying to sound calm. But he’s shaking – like he’s holding something back. “Don’t think that’s a good idea just yet. Come and sit down.” He walks away from me.

  “I don’t want to sit down. Tell me what’s happened.”

  I follow Dad into the lounge room. We stand across from each other.

  “Your mother rang me at work …”

  “Why?”

  “She was in the bath and …”

  “And what? She slipped?” I can’t shake the feeling of dread.

  Dad’s voice is soft. “Matt, there’s no easy way to say this, mate, but your mum … she … well, she tried to kill herself.”

  I try to push past him. “I have to see her.”

  “No, Matt.”

  Dad seems so in control. I take my fear and anger out on him. “You don’t even care.”

  “Of course I care. But this isn’t the first time she’s done this sort of thing. It’s her way of getting attention.”

  Dad stands in front of me to block my view, but I catch a glimpse of Mum’s dark hair, hanging wet and limp around her face as they take her on a stretcher from the bathroom to the waiting ambulance. I try to run after her – to ask if she’s going to be okay. But Dad puts an arm out to stop me.

  The ambulance leaves without its siren flashing. Dad says, “Ambulances do that sometimes so they don’t upset the patients – particularly if they’re agitated.”

  We follow in Dad’s car.

  I don’t talk on the way to the hospital.

  “It’s not your fault,” says Dad.

  How does he know?

  We wait for two hours in intensive care until the doctor comes. “Is Zora your wife?” he asks Dad.

  Dad nods.

  So they never got divorced.

  “She’s going to be okay. Her injuries are not life threatening, but she’s going to need psychiatric referral.”

  “We understand,” says Dad.

  They won’t let us in to see Mum that night, so we go home. I don’t sleep and neither does Dad. In the morning, we both shuffle down to breakfast with major bags under our eyes.

  I put three sugars in my coffee and stir it till Dad says, “You’ll wear the bottom out of that mug.”

  The phone rings. We both jump. I’m too scared to answer it. Dad picks it up. “Dave Hudson … yes … I see … I think that would be best.” Dad hangs up.

  “The hospital?” My voice comes out in a whisper.

  Dad nods. “Apparently, your mum is physically okay, but they’re moving her to Gardenvale Hospital – to the Acute Psychiatric Unit.”

  Maybe I should ask for a bed there.

  Dear Leonardo,

  How can you cut through flesh
with a knife?

  How could you do something like that to yourself – for whatever reason? How bad must Mum be feeling?

  Matt

  24

  I take the bus to Gardenvale Hospital. Dad wants to come with me, but I won’t let him. He never wanted her back in our lives in the first place.

  The hospital is huge and new – not like Barry Hill, at all. In the foyer there are shops where you can buy food and flowers. Damn, I should have brought money. I reckon Mum would have liked flowers. Then again, maybe not. I’m a bit scared now that I’m here.

  There’s an information desk once you get past the shops. A woman in a blue cardigan asks, “Can I help you, love?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m looking for my mother. Her name’s Zora Hudson.”

  The woman looks up the computer. “Sorry, love. Nobody by that name. Are you sure she’s here and not Gardenview, the maternity hospital? Not having a baby, is she? Some people get the two places confused.”

  Then I remember. “She might be under ‘Matthews’,” I say.

  “Oh, right. Here she is. Room 12. Up the stairs to your left.”

  “Thanks.” I hurry away, wondering if she thinks Mum’s mad. Probably the whole world does by now.

  As I get closer to room 12, I slow down. I’m not sure if I’m really ready for this. I hesitate outside room 10. The door’s open. There’s a guy, not that much older than me, sitting on the bed. He’s small and wild-looking. When he smiles there are huge gaps between his teeth. “Hi, I’m Kevin.”

  I’m about to keep walking, when he says, “You want to come in? I never have visitors.”

  It would be awful, being stuck in a place like this. I step into the room. Kevin bounces up and down. “Sit here.” He pats a spot on the moving bed.

  “I’m Matt.”

  Kevin stops bouncing and settles at my feet like a pet dog. “What are you doing here? You don’t look crazy. But then you never can tell.”

  He leaps back onto the bed, rolls up one sleeve of his thin blue pyjama top, and shows me a white line across his wrist. “That’s where I slashed last Christmas.”

  He grabs my hand and makes me feel the fine ridge of his scar.

  “It’s worse on the other arm. Want to see?”

  I shake my head. Kevin pushes his face close to mine till our noses are almost touching, and I can smell his sour breath.

  “I’m crazy, you know. It’s a family tradition.” Kevin’s laugh is off-key.

  I stand up. He moves closer. “Am I scaring you? I scare heaps of people.”

  I back towards the door. “I’m looking for someone so I’d better go now.”

  Kevin stands up and follows me. He grabs my arm. “It’s not my fault,” he says. “It runs in the family.”

  I try to step outside the door, but Kevin hangs on. “You can’t fight genetics.”

  “Bye, Kevin.” I pull my arm free and run.

  I don’t stop running till I’m on the bus back to Brabham.

  When I get home, Troy is pacing up and down outside my front gate.

  He follows me into the house. “So, how’d it go? Did you see her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I pour us both a glass of milk. “I freaked out. It’s a scary place.”

  Troy grabs the jumper that’s tied around his waist and hangs it over his face. He walks around with his arms outstretched. “I am the ghost of Gardenvale,” he says in a spooky voice, then collapses laughing.

  “Not that kind of scary.”

  Troy is still laughing when Dad walks in. “What’s the joke?” he says.

  “Wasn’t really that funny anyway.” I signal to Troy.

  “Gotta go, Mr H. Catch you later.”

  I grab my backpack and head to my room before Dad can hassle me about today. I’m too embarrassed to tell him what a wuss I am.

  I slam my bedroom door shut. If I hadn’t been so freaked out by Kevin, I would have got to see Mum – and I could have asked her stuff. Stuff about us, about me, about genetics – and whether I might be bipolar too.

  I lie on the bed, banging my head against the pillow, thinking about Kevin. I never expected to see someone that young in a psych place. Is he right? Is madness something you can get from your parents?

  At school I am called to the headmaster’s office. They say my name over the PA, but I don’t move. Since I heard about what Mum did, I’ve felt kind of sedated, like I’m living in a haze and nothing’s real. Is that what Mum feels like on the medication? No wonder she doesn’t want to take it.

  “You’re in for it, Hudson!” says Carly Ralph.

  Damon Knox asks, “What’s Marvo Matt done now?”

  “Don’t listen to them,” says Troy.

  “I’m not.” The words seem to come out of my mouth without me making them. My mind can’t focus. How do you forget the image of your mother lying in a bath full of blood? Even though I didn’t see her do it, my imagination does a good job of making the picture for me.

  “Matt Hudson to Mr Madden’s office now.”

  “You’d better go, Matt,” says Troy.

  “Yeah.”

  I get to my feet and Troy pushes me towards the door. “Good luck, mate,” he whispers.

  I stand in front of Mr Madden’s antique desk.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Madden looks at me intently. “You weren’t at school yesterday. Want to tell me about it?”

  I glare at him. “Not really.”

  “Your father rang. He told me your mother had to go to hospital. It might help to talk,” says Madden. He has that same “I’m here to help you” look that Dad wears.

  “I doubt it.” I don’t see how talking about it can fix anything.

  I bite my lip. I’m going to howl – right then and there in Madden’s office.

  “It’s not your fault, Matt. Your mother’s ill. It’s not anyone’s fault.”

  What would he know? I’m so sick of people trying to tell me who I should be and how I should feel.

  I slam out of the headmaster’s office.

  I run and run. I can’t stop running. It’s like the day I found out Mum wasn’t really dead. My anger’s too big to fit inside my body. I want to keep running and never stop.

  Finally, when I can’t run any more, I collapse on the ground. I lie facedown on the soft grass next to the river. I don’t care that the sun’s beating down on the back of my head. Don’t care if I die of sunstroke. And nobody else will either.

  Troy finds me before the sun has a chance to fry me.

  “Hey, Matt! There you are.” He flops down on the grass. “Madden got me out of class to come and look for you. Thanks for that,” he says with a grin.

  “Any time.”

  “What happened?”

  “He wanted to talk about Mum. Dad phoned him. Madden reckons it’s not my fault she did it to herself. But that’s crap.” The grass itches my face. I sit up.

  Troy rolls a blade of grass between his palms. “What does your dad say?”

  “He reckons she just wants attention. Says she’s nothing but trouble. I hate him.”

  Troy hesitates. “He’s got a point, you know.”

  I get to my feet. “Whose side are you on anyway?”

  “I’m just a mate, trying to help you sort through all this.”

  I get up. “Well, you’re not helping. So nick off and leave me alone.”

  Troy stands too. “You’ve got to face it, mate. Your life has been a train wreck since she came on the scene. She’s stuffed in the head and she’s making you the same way. I know it’s not her fault, but you can’t let her drag you into it.”

  The anger keeps swelling inside me. I’m mad with so many people: Dad for lying in the first place; Mum for doing this to herself; and now Troy’s giving me a hard time as well.

  It’s too much.

  He sidesteps my clenched fist, but the blow catches him on the side of the face, sending him tumbling into the wat
er. His face goes under; his arms and legs flail about.

  At first I think it’s just another one of his jokes. But he’s not coming up. I dive in, lurch about until I grab hold of his arm, drag him to the surface and swim to the bank. He’s still a bit dazed, but manages to cough up the water he swallowed.

  I feel worse than ever. Troy’s my best mate – the one who stuck by me through all this – and I nearly drowned him.

  “I’m sorry, Troy.” What else can I say?

  Troy smiles weakly. “No harm done.” His voice is croaky.

  “You’re right. My life’s a train wreck. I just don’t know what to do about it.”

  We lie on the grass, drying in the sun.

  I sit up. “Troy, do you think I’m like her?”

  “’Course you are. She’s your mother.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Do you reckon I’m moody?”

  “No more than anyone else I know.”

  Troy looks at me. For once he’s not laughing. “What are you really asking me?”

  I take a deep breath. Force out the words that I’ve not had the guts to say aloud. “Do you reckon I could have this bipolar thing? It’s supposed to run in families.”

  “Nah, you’re not bipolar. Not that I really know much about it. But you seem normal to me. Hot-headed and stubborn maybe, but not crazy. What does your dad say?”

  “Haven’t asked him.”

  “Maybe your mum can help you. She’d know better than anyone what the signs are.”

  Dear Leonardo,

  Every time I look at one of your paintings, I realise it’s the truth and the detail that make your work so great.

  You never seemed to paint anything without looking into it. No surface sketches for you.

  I think that’s what I love about your Drapery Study. I never thought of clothes as having a life of their own – but they do. We all wear an outer layer to hide who we really are.

  Matt

  Dear Leonardo,

  You once said that “The desire to know is natural to all good people.”

  Mind you, I’m not saying I’m a good person – just that I need to know.

  Gotta go back and see Mum. Gotta face this head-on.

  Have to live with whatever happens.

  Matt