Letters to Leonardo (2 page)

I drag out the next drawer. Nothing. And the next. Still nothing.

I wrench out the bottom drawer. I have just enough control left to stop me from throwing the whole thing through Dave’s window. Savagely, I thrust my hand in amongst the shorts and swimwear. Something pricks my finger. I take it out for a closer look. It’s some sort of pin with two owls at the blunt end. Don’t really know what it’s for, but it says
Mayberry Girls’ Grammar
across the bottom. Girls’ Grammar, it can’t belong to Dave.

I’m standing in the middle of the pile of Dave’s clothes. I love that they’re not neatly folded stacks any more. They’re a twisted mess. That’s how my insides feel.

I’ve got a mum – and she’s not dead! I want to prick every single finger with the Mayberry Girls’ Grammar pin, wipe the blood on Dave’s white business shirts, then watch him freak. See how he handles shock! I want the sting of ten bleeding fingers to distract me from the pain that’s coming from deep in my chest. Too bad I’m such a wimp.

I kick the wardrobe where Dave hangs his suits. The door vibrates, but doesn’t show the mark of my anger.

Each suit hangs next to its matching shirt and tie, all coathangers face the same way. I take every single piece of clothing from its hanger and think about throwing it on the crush at my feet. But I don’t. I put them
all
back. Put jackets with pants that don’t match, blue shirts with green paisley ties. I arrange them into a confused jumble, then I scoop up the bible, photo and pin. So few things. They fit easily into my back pocket. All that’s left to show my mother even existed. It’s like Dave has tried to erase her from his memory and these are the things he accidentally overlooked.

Back in my room, I lay Mum’s stuff out on my desk; between the watercolour pencils that were last year’s birthday present from Troy, and a pile of scrap paper sketchpads.

I take out the photo of Mum to have another look; my hand shakes too much to hold it steady. At first I’m so angry with her, I want to rip it up. But the part of me that always wanted a mother wishes I could use it to bring her back. For ages, I sit on my bed, clutching the photo to my chest, but it doesn’t make the pain go away.

So much I don’t know. I look like her, but what else connects us? What sort of music does she listen to? Does she go to bed late too? What sort of person is she? Why don’t I know this about my own mother? With each question, the anger pounds harder in my chest, like a heavy clanging church bell. I look out my bedroom window and wonder, can anyone else hear? If I lifted up my shirt, could they see the gaping hole in my heart?

Of all the things I found that belong to her, the only one that’s any use is the Mayberry Girls’ Grammar pin. At least that tells me where she went to school.

I slam myself down on my chair in front of my computer, shove the mouse towards Explorer and click. My fingers stumble on the keys. “Mayberry Girls’ Grammar”. Finally, on the third try, the screen signals “Website found”.

My stomach churns when the home page comes up. What do I do now? Where do you start searching for someone that you shouldn’t even need to be looking for? Salt stings my eyes. I tap out “Zara Hudson”. The screen taunts “no match”. Thanks for nothing! I’m about to flick the “off” switch, when I realise … she wouldn’t be Zara Hudson. She wasn’t married then!

“Don’t stop now,” says the white-hot anger.

She has to be here! I have to find out
something
about her – there has to be more than what was in Dave’s wardrobe. Who was she friends with? Is there
someone
who knew her? Someone who can tell me the truth about her – someone who might even know where she is now.

I type in “Tara Zempleton” – nothing. Oops. I tap the keys hard and retype. Finally, there she is: “Z Templeton”, typed underneath the class photo, “Class of 81”. She’s four years younger than Dave.

School captain for that year is listed as K Armain. I don’t know if she was friends with Mum or not, but she was in her class. And there’s an email listing – as good as an invitation. Perhaps “K Armain” will have some info on the mysterious, long-lost Miss Templeton – absent mother of Matt Hudson who turned fifteen today.

“Happy Birthday and have a fun day”. That was the pathetic inscription inside Dave’s card. Are we having fun yet? NO!

I wish the pounding in my chest would stop – now my head’s thumping as well. What am I going to say to her – to this Armain person? I know I should take time to try and calm myself, think what to do next, but anger is pushing me forward. I can’t stop now. If I stopped, all of this would come down on me like an avalanche, and I’d be left in a snow cave with barely enough air to breathe.

I key in her address: [email protected]. My fingers staccato on the keys.

Hi
,

You don’t know me, but I’m the son of Zara Templeton, who ran out on me when I was five
(Delete that last bit.)

I haven’t seen my mother for ten years and am trying to find her because my lying father isn’t likely to be any help
. (Delete that too.)

I’m hoping that you, or someone else who went to school with her, might know where she is and why she took off
. (Delete again.)
It’s really important that I contact her
.

“What makes you think she’d want to hear from you?” says a voice in my head.

(Delete all of that.)

I start again. I end up with:

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Looking for Zara

Hi,

I’m Matt Hudson.

You went to school with my mum, Zara Templeton.

I haven’t seen her for ten years and am trying to track her down.

Can you help?

Thanks,

Matt Hudson

After I press “send”, I break into a cold sweat. I just make it to the toilet in time to heave up breakfast.

I sit on my bed all day. Waiting. Holding the photo to my chest. I don’t go to school. Don’t eat. Don’t think. I just sit, trying to block out the words that keep echoing over and over in my mind as if someone keeps pressing “rewind”:
You’re fifteen now … old enough to know your mother
. Over and over and over.

My mother is
not
dead! The truth of it fries my brain, changes everything – including me.

Dear Leonardo
,

Parents ride you for every little white lie – then you find out they’ve told you the Whopper of All Whoppers – and kept it up for the last ten years
.

Happy Birthday, Matt, oh and by the way, YOUR MOTHER IS NOT DEAD!

So, Leo, that’s how my birthday’s gone. Can’t even begin to tell you what’s going on in my head
.

This time, I’m not writing for Mrs D, I’m writing for me. Have to let it out somehow. And it’s not like there’s anyone who’s alive NOW, who I can actually trust – someone who won’t make a joke of the whole thing
.

Maybe writing this down might help me make sense of everything
.

Who knows, you might even write back. Seems like dead people do send letters
.

Matt

The bedroom door bursts open. Dave stands gaping at me. “Oh my God, Matt. We’ve been robbed. Are you okay? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

As if anyone could hurt me more than you have!
My laugh is dry like the crackle of sunburnt bracken. “I’m fine, Dave. Never been better.” The lie moves up through my body and collects in my throat in bubbles of hysteria. Suddenly, I burst out laughing and can’t stop: loud, high-pitched, hysterical giggles.

“Matt, are you sure you’re all right?”

It makes me laugh more. I’m angry and sad, confused and betrayed – and I can’t stop laughing.

“For God’s sake, Matt, what’s wrong with you?”

That’s the slap in the face I needed. “What’s wrong with
me
? That’s a joke.”

I shove Dave out of the room and slam the door shut. I’d lock it but we don’t have locks on our doors. Dave always said we don’t need them – that we don’t have anything to hide from each other.
Huh! As if
.

I push my double bed up against the door so he can’t get back in. I jam my finger between the bedhead and the wall. It’s the same finger I pricked with the Mayberry Girls’ Grammar pin. The pain brings me back to where all this started – with Dave’s lies.

He knocks relentlessly on the door. “Talk to me, Matt.”

I don’t answer.

“You can’t stay in there forever.”

Want to make a bet?

Finally, his retreating footsteps clomp on the wooden floorboards. Now there’s no sound except my breaths coming in short angry wheezes. I know I need to calm down, but I can’t seem to help it. I’m fuelled with anger – it’s all that’s keeping me from breaking down.

I refocus on my laptop screen. No answer from K Armain, no answers to any of this.

The smell of pizza wafts under my door and I realise that I’m dizzy with hunger. I don’t think I can hold out any longer. I check my email one last time – still nothing! I push my bed back to its usual place and open the bedroom door.

Dave eyes me off when I walk into the kitchen, as if he’s working out what sort of mood I’m in and how to handle me.

He dumps a huge slab of ham and pineapple pizza in front of me and asks, “How was school, Matt?”

He’s going for the “let’s pretend nothing has happened” approach. Why am I not surprised? Because I’ve just found out
that’s
what he’s been doing for most of my life.

I snort. “I didn’t go to school. Didn’t feel like it.”

Dave looks at me intently. I think he might have figured out who the burglar was. “Education is important, you know that,” he says, passing me a glass of lime cordial.

So is being honest with your kid.

I take a huge bite of pizza.

We’re like two cows in a paddock; the only sound is the chewing of pizza. The food helps the nausea, but not the pounding anger. I want to confront him. Now. But I can’t stomach the thought of more lies.

Dave takes his empty plate to the sink. “So, why didn’t you go to school?”

I keep munching. Dave stands next to me. “Should I be calling the police, Matt? Were we burgled or do you know something about the mess in my room?”

I shrug.

Dave’s voice is firm. “Matt, what do you know?”

I stand and shove my chair against the table, spilling my cordial.

“What do
I
know about the mess?”

Dave nods.

“That it’s nowhere near as bad as the mess that is my life.”

I’m only just keeping it together.

“What’s wrong with you, Matt? What’s happened?”

I can feel Dave’s breath on my face. I step away and press my lips together tight. I’m not ready to answer questions yet – or even to ask my own. I need to find out more about my mother first – from an authentic source. I need to know that what he tells me isn’t MORE LIES.

Dave goes to the bookcase. I wait for him to pull down
Sons and the Single Parent
, by Frank Rosenbaum. It’s where he goes for advice when he’s under pressure. Dave’s always quoting from his “bible”. According to Rosenbaum, “A good father is his son’s best buddy.” Dave told someone once that we were best buddies and didn’t need a woman stuffing things up for us.

That’s his opinion, not mine. I never had a say in it.

“What are you looking for, Dave?”

He’s about to reach for the book when he stops himself, turns and looks at me.

My head feels like it’s about to explode. “What do you do when your son gives you attitude? Better ask Rosenbaum, Dave.”

I stomp to my room, slam the door and push my bed back up against it.

There’s still nothing from K Armain.

I stare at my
Mona Lisa
screen saver, wondering why I chose that out of all Leo’s paintings. Tears sting my eyes. Was she
ever
a mother? Did she have a son?

Questions! So many questions – and no answers.

I trace my fingers over the smooth forehead of Mona Lisa and start thinking about Leonardo. I wonder what was going on in his head when he painted her. I wonder what that “air of mystery” was all about.

I decide to Google “Leonardo da Vinci”. Maybe trying to forget my own stuff, and finding out about someone else’s life, might make the wait more bearable.