Letters to Leonardo

by Dee White

  25

  It takes me three days to get the courage – seventy-two hours of fighting myself. Should I go? Shouldn’t I? Troy offers to come but I won’t let him.

  “I can’t believe that you’re still my mate, after I nearly drowned you,” I say.

  Troy laughs. “You won’t get rid of me that easily.”

  “I gave it a good go.”

  “Yeah, but you got me out in the end. Besides, I guess I asked for it.” He points to the side of his face, which is still bruised from where I punched him. “You know this big mouth of mine. It’s always getting me into trouble.

  “Good luck,” he says as I hop on the bus to Gardenvale.

  As I walk up the hallway to Mum’s room, I think about what Troy said. Mum’s the one who can tell me if I’m bipolar or not.

  She’s resting when I walk in. “Hi, darling, I’m glad you came.” Her voice is thin and dry like the air-conditioned room. She sits up and pats the bed. “Sit down and talk to me,” she says.

  She wears a faded blue hospital gown and looks so unlike herself – colourless. I feel like I made this happen. I should have left Mum alone with her peppercorn trees and stray cats – back in Hillton in her world where she creates unbelievable paintings.

  There are bars on the windows. Do they really need to be there?

  “I’m sorry, Mum.” I bend to kiss her.

  She strokes my hair. “It’s not your fault, Matt. It never was.”

  I lay my head on her shoulder. “But look at you, Mum. You don’t belong here.”

  “It’s okay, really. They look after me.”

  “But why can’t we do that?”

  A nurse comes in and hands Mum a couple of pills which she swallows without water. “I need professional help,” she says.

  “You seem okay now.”

  Mum shakes her head. “That’s the medication. They’ve got me on some pretty strong stuff.”

  I look away. “Mum, do you think I could be bipolar?”

  She seems really stunned by my question. “Why would you think that?”

  “I get pretty angry sometimes.”

  Mum makes me face her. “Lots of people get angry. I wouldn’t worry, Matty. You seem fine. I know I’m not a great one to judge, but there are so many things about being bipolar that you just don’t seem to be.”

  “Like what?”

  “Insomniac for starters. You don’t seem to have any trouble sleeping.”

  I think of all the times Dad has to wake me up for school because I slept through my alarm. “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.”

  “Do you think about dying a lot? Because I do.”

  “Not really.” I hardly ever think about the fact that my own life’s going to end one day. In fact, the only death I’ve thought about much at all has been Mum’s – and it turned out she wasn’t dead after all.

  “Ever get the feeling you can’t slow down, no matter how you try?”

  I think about that day I bolted out of Madden’s office, but even then I got so tired I had to rest. “No.”

  Mum smiles. “I’m no medical expert. I’m not even always in my right mind. But you don’t seem to have a problem to me.”

  I put my hand in hers. “What about you, Mum? Will you be okay?”

  “Sure I will. I’m a pretty tough cookie, you know. I have to be.”

  I’ve never thought of her as tough. She always seems so vulnerable to me. But then again, to live without your kid for his sake for ten years must have taken some guts.

  “When you come back, I’m going to look after you.”

  Mum places a hand on either side of her, as if she’s propping herself up. “I’m not coming back, Matt. I’m going home.”

  “But you’re okay if you stay on your medication.”

  “I’m sorry, Matt. I just can’t do it. I made a decision once before. And it was the right one. I’m better off away from people. Then I can’t hurt them.”

  “But what about us?”

  Mum’s firm. “You were doing all right till I came back into your life. Seems to me things went downhill from there.”

  I try to hold back the tears.

  “I’ll write,” says Mum. “And maybe you can come and stay sometimes – if you’re game?”

  At least she’s not going completely out of my life again. I’ll still have a mother. “That’d be good, Mum.”

  She takes my hand again. “I’m really sorry, Matt.”

  She’s not the one who should be sorry. She can’t help the way she is. “It was my fault all this happened, Mum.”

  Mum smiles. “Don’t blame yourself, Matty. It was my choice to come and I’m glad I made it, glad I got to know you.”

  I put my arms around her.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be the person you want me to be,” she whispers.

  “You’re still my mum.”

  On the way home, I feel more relaxed than I have in ages. The thread in my stomach is looser. Everything’s out in the open – no more secrets.

  When I get back from Gardenvale Hospital, Troy is waiting for me. I wince at the huge bruise still on his cheek from where I hit him.

  “Jeez, mate. Your face looks awful.”

  “Don’t worry,” says Troy. “It’s a real chick magnet.”

  Trust Troy to make a joke of it. “Girls find that attractive?”

  “Well, maybe not. But I’ve been getting plenty of attention – from Tina Armstrong, in particular.”

  “Serious?”

  “Yeah, I told her you walloped me, but she didn’t believe me. Thinks it was my old man, but I’m too afraid to tell. I heard her talking to Josie Walker about it.”

  I laugh. “So, she’s giving you plenty of sympathy, is she?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Poor you!”

  “Don’t worry. I can handle it. Tina told me if ever I need to talk to someone, she’s happy to listen. Even gave me her phone number.”

  I shake my head in disbelief.

  “So, how did you go?” asks Troy.

  “Okay. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. You’d better go and send your girlfriend a text.”

  Dear Leonardo,

  I read how you used to buy those birds in the marketplace then open their cages so they could fly away. I thought it was amazing. Now I’m going to try to be just like you.

  I’m going to give Mum back her freedom.

  I’m letting her go.

  Dad reckons it will be “best for all of us”.

  Matt

  26

  Now Mum’s gone, my life’s not so rushed – not so chaotic. I don’t get up every morning feeling like I’m being torn in two.

  Dad drops me at art class. While I wait for Steve to finish serving his last customer for the day, I lay out my paints and brushes.

  “Today, we’re moving on to formal composition,” Steve says.

  I’m starting to think art classes might not work for me after all. I just want to paint.

  Steve asks, “Have you seen Leonardo’s Virgin of the Rocks?”

  I nod. I’ve committed every Leonardo da Vinci masterpiece to memory.

  “It’s based on triangles – a common compositional device used by artists today.”

  “So? Can’t we just paint?”

  Steve waves a brush at me. “Patience, Matt. Leonardo spent thirteen years perfecting his craft – ask your mum, she’ll tell you.”

  “I know already. I read it in a book about him.”

  Steve smiles. “Learning to paint takes time.”

  “Mum went back to Hillton.”

  “Oh.”

  A week later Troy and I catch the bus home from school to my place.

  Troy pats me on the back. “I owe you big-time for that bruise,” he says. “The delectable Ms Armstrong and I have never been friendlier.”

  Troy and I haven’t seen much of each other lately. He’s been over at Tina’s place a lot – getting help with his homework – and moral support for
his supposedly tragic life.

  When we get to my house, Mum’s car’s in the driveway. I go hot then cold – icy, goose bump cold. I haven’t seen her since the hospital. What’s she doing here? Is she okay?

  Troy groans when he sees her car. “Great! She’s back.”

  “You wait here. I’ll talk to her. Find out what she wants,” I say.

  “Fine,” says Troy. “Just don’t get sucked in by her, all right?”

  “She’s not that bad.”

  Troy shrugs. “Be careful, Matt. Don’t let her hurt you.”

  As soon as I walk into the house, I know something’s wrong. I’m sure Mum’s in there, but I can’t smell the thick sweet scent of her perfume. There’s something else drowning it out. It’s smoke!

  I open the kitchen door. Everything has been taken out of the cupboards, piled into the middle of the kitchen floor and set alight. The house is on fire.

  Mum stands there, throwing more stuff onto the flames.

  “Hi, Matty,” she says when she sees me – as if what she’s doing is perfectly normal. She smiles like Mona Lisa. As if she’s found the secret to the world. “To make it work for us, we have to burn the past. Then we can start a brand-new future together.”

  I can’t get near the sink, the flames are too high.

  “Mum, get out before you get hurt!”

  “Don’t be silly, Matty. Everything will to be fine.” She goes to the door. “I’m just going to get more stuff.”

  It makes me think back to the time when I burned Dad’s book. Still, I knew exactly what I was doing then. Mum doesn’t. In her world, burning down our house is going to fix everything. I know it won’t.

  I race to the laundry, fill two buckets with water and throw them on the flames. The fire flickers, but doesn’t go out. It has taken hold in the cupboard next to the dishwasher and is making its way up the wall.

  I bolt to the phone and call the fire brigade. Then I run back to the kitchen with two more buckets of water.

  Mum walks in with Dave’s squash trophy in one hand and my laptop in the other.

  I grab them from her and race out the front door.

  “Here, mind these,” I say to Troy. I run back into the house without any explanation.

  Mum has more stuff in her hands. “You’ll see, Matty. This will fix everything.” She tosses some of Dave’s books into the burning kitchen. Mum doesn’t seem to notice the heat from the flames. She walks straight to them like a moth to a light. The fire is all up one wall and the overhead cupboards are sagging dangerously.

  Mum steps back to look at what she’s done – just like Troy and I did at the water tank on Mather’s Hill. Mum’s proud to be destroying our house. She has this insane smile – as if this will bring her inner peace – as if it’s the solution she’s been looking for all her life.

  “Watch out!” I yell.

  The overhead cupboard slides down the wall and falls. One corner hits Mum on the head, knocking her sideways into the middle of the burning pile. It all happens so fast.

  She lies where she fell, no sound, no screams, just her still body in the flames. I grab her from the fire. Fear gives my whole body a jolt. My throat is dry. This can’t be happening.

  I carry Mum to the lounge room and roll her over and over to put out the flames. I check her pulse – it’s weak. She’s out cold but she still has that stupid smile on her face.

  I lift her up and sling her over my shoulder. She’s not very big, but she’s a dead weight. I run from the house screaming, “Help! Somebody, help! Fire! Help!” My voice is high and scared. I lay Mum carefully on the grass, well away from the house. I take off my jacket and put it under her head for a pillow. There’s a black patch on her temple, but I don’t know if it’s a bruise from when the cupboard fell on her or soot from the fire. Smoke and flames are rearing out of the chimney. I reach for my mobile to call an ambulance, but the phone’s not in my pocket. It must have fallen out inside. I look towards the house. The laptop and trophy are still on the front verandah. Where’s Troy? Why didn’t he stay where I left him?

  I run through the front door. Through the haze of smoke, I see Troy down the end of the hallway. He must have gone around the back looking for me. I think he’s calling my name, but I can’t be sure over the roar of the fire. I see him framed by a burning doorway. I hear sirens – I hear Troy scream as the roof collapses.

  Strong hands drag me back – away from him. “Troy!” I shout his name. But they won’t let me go to him.

  Two firefighters half-drag, half-carry me outside. The other one goes back for Troy.

  Next thing I remember is waking up in the ambulance. The pain in my arms is worse than anything I’ve felt before. “Troy!” I whisper through dry lips. “Is my friend okay?”

  “We’ll let you know as soon as we hear something.” The ambo’s a woman about Mum’s age but so different. She’s tall and blond with big arms, and her voice is firm and strong when she speaks. She smiles into my eyes, calmly strokes my hair and tells me, “Try and relax, Matt. You’re going to be fine.”

  27

  I open my eyes. At first I think I’m still in the ambulance. But the roof is too high and nothing is moving. There are no tyre sounds on bitumen road, or flickering traffic lights whizzing past. No siren, just the sound of my own breathing, and feet walking towards me on a hard floor.

  My arms hurt – a lot. A woman is standing over me. “Mum?” My voice comes out thin and soft, like it hasn’t been used for a while. I close my eyes again.

  Of course it’s not Mum. She died when I was five – didn’t she? Something’s not right.

  I open my eyes again – slowly – first my right eye, then my left. I exhale with relief. I’m not crazy. This woman is nothing like Mum. She’s tall with lighter hair and a dark blue cardigan – not Mum’s colour at all. But how would I know that if she died when I was small? I’m so confused. I close my eyes again. It’s safer in the darkness.

  “You’re awake?”

  That’s a voice I know. I peer through half-closed eyelids at Dad. I want to open my eyes again, but I’m having trouble working out what’s real. Maybe all of this is a dream.

  I close my eyes tighter, and the orange screen behind my lids goes darker. In my head, I see an old man with white hair and a beard wearing a strange-looking beret. The man’s eyebrows are shaped like a “~” on a computer keyboard – can’t remember what that thing’s called. In one hand, the man holds a paintbrush which he brandishes like a weapon. He throws his words at me, “Art is never finished, only abandoned.”

  I don’t understand. I don’t get any of this.

  “The truth of things is the chief nutriment of superior intellects,” he says.

  Truth. Somehow, I know that’s important to both of us. Who is he? Grandfather? Wizard? Leonardo? Where did that last thought come from?

  I don’t know whether to open my eyes or keep them closed. Don’t know what’s real. There are more footsteps. My arms still hurt – and my chest is heavy, like a weight is pressing down on it.

  I reach out desperately and touch Dad’s face. The pain shooting through my fingers makes me wince. That’s definitely real. I open my eyes.

  Dad pulls away.

  A man in a white coat asks, “How are you feeling, Matt?”

  How does he know my name? I close my eyes and head back to the darkness.

  “It’s all right, Matt.” His voice is calm. “I’m Doctor Fredrikson.”

  A doctor – that information helps.

  I open my eyes again.

  The doctor smiles. “You’ve been out of it for a few days now, Matt. It takes a while to reorient yourself.”

  How do I get rid of this burning smell in my nostrils? And the taste of smoke?

  If my throat didn’t hurt so much, I think I’d scream in frustration. I look at my bandaged hands and wonder what’s under the wadding.

  The clunk of wheels on hard floor makes me try to turn my head to look, but everything hurt
s.

  “Here’s your lunch, Matt.” A woman with dark eyes and a big smile stands beside the bed, holding a bowl on a silver tray.

  She knows me too?

  Dad takes the food from her and puts it on a table next to me. The clunking wheels and footsteps disappear.

  Dad and the woman in the blue cardigan (she says she’s a nurse) take one arm each and help raise me up to almost sitting. It makes me dizzy.

  Once my stomach has settled and the room stops spinning, Dad says, “Let’s have a go at lunch.”

  “Lunch?”

  “Nothing too hard – it’s soup.” He dips the spoon into the bowl. “Open up.”

  I open my mouth as wide as I can, but it feels like my lips are cracking. Dad spoons in cold soup. I can’t taste it, but it hurts my throat when it goes down. The pain makes it hard to breathe. I panic and push the spoon away. Soup spills everywhere.

  That woman is still there – the first one in the blue cardigan. The one I thought was my mother.

  “Try and stay calm,” she says. “It’s important that you eat something.”

  “Everything’s going to be fine, Matt,” says Dad.

  Is it? It’s hard to breathe, hard to swallow and even harder to talk.

  The nurse gets a cloth and wipes pale yellow soup from the white sheet. On my left is another bed with exactly the same sheets on it.

  “You’re in hospital.” Dad holds my face gently between his hands – stops my darting eyes.

  That explains the doctor and nurse.

  Doctor Fredrikson comes back after lunch. “I’m going to need to check those arms, I’m afraid,” he says.

  I close my eyes. Don’t want to know what’s under there. I try and get the old man with the deep voice back in my head – Leonardo.

  When the bandages come off and the air hits my arms, the pain is almost too much.

  Help me, Leonardo!

  The old man is back. He waves his paintbrush at me. “The noblest pleasure is the joy of understanding.”

  Wish I understood.

  The old man fades. The bandages are back on. I open my eyes. Doctor Fredrikson sits on the chair next to my bed. His eyes pan from Dad to me – like a lighthouse beacon.