Letters to Leonardo (6 page)

At one time you lived with your grandparents and Uncle Francesco who farmed olives and grapes. We still farm them today. Who knows why? Olives taste foul
.

Apparently, you used to have heaps of marble masons and carpenters in your town. We don’t have anybody in Brabham who builds out of stone, and the only carpenter is Ben McGraw who has never been quite the same since he fell off the church roof
.

Matt

Dear Leonardo
,

This is the letter I really wanted to write
.

It’s strange, but I feel like you get what I’m going through – like you understand
.

Getting taken from your mum sucks. Bet they never fooled you with their lies though, Leo. You just have to look at your paintings to know, “There’s someone who sees right to the heart of everything”
.

Wish Mum could have seen my water tank mural – and given me an artist’s opinion
.

If she walked through the door now, at least she’d be able to explain why she decided to opt out of my life for the last ten years. And it’d be good for me too. I’d be able to ask her all the stuff I need to know
.

It was different for you, Leo. You went to live with your grandparents. You got to see your mum sometimes
.

And so what if your parents weren’t married? Mine were – and it doesn’t seem to have done them (or me) much good
.

Matt

I stand at my window. The doorbell rings. I listen to Dave talking to someone at the front door. “It’s a bit late for visiting,” he says.

I stare at Mum’s Uluru painting. “I need to find you,” I say aloud.

“Find who?” Troy appears in my bedroom doorway. He walks in, usual wide grin stretched across his freckled face.

“Sorry about before.”

“No worries. It’s forgotten.”

Troy picks up Mum’s card. “Hey, cool picture,” he says. “Who’s it from?”

I feel myself tense. I think about grabbing the card back from him. Then I realise it’s the easiest way – the only way I’m going to be able to tell him about the mess my life’s in. I sit on the bed and watch his face while he reads.

“Holy crap! I thought your mum was dead.”

“So did I.”

“So that’s why you’ve been wacko the last couple of days.” He passes the card back and mumbles, “I don’t know what to say.”

Even though I’m pretty wound up, I can’t stop myself from smiling. “That’d be a first.”

Troy pretends to look offended. “Have you told your dad about this? Is that why we didn’t get into too much strife about the tank?”

“Na, that was some deal he did with the PC.”

“So, what did he say about the letter?”

The anger boils inside me again. “Haven’t told him yet. Why should I? He’s kept her from me for the last ten years. This is all his fault.”

“It must have been a hell of a shock.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“Why haven’t you said something?”

I lie back on the bed, feeling defeated. “I dunno. I just want a normal life like yours.”

Troy laughs. “You reckon I’m normal?”

“Well, maybe not, but your family is. You’ve got a mum and dad who are really into each other. And you’ve got a sister and grandparents – the whole ‘happy family’ thing.”

Troy gives an exaggerated yawn. “Might seem ideal, but they’re about as exciting as one of your dad’s self-help books.
Nothing
ever happens in our house – not unless I make it.”

I sit up and lean against the wall. “At least your parents don’t lie to you.”

Troy picks up a rubber and sharpener off my desk and starts juggling them. “So what are you going to do now?”

“I dunno.” My voice is croaky. “She hasn’t tried to contact me for the last ten years.”

Troy stops juggling. “She must have had her reasons. I reckon you should talk to her and find out what they were.”

I pull the Mayberry Girls’ Grammar pin out of my drawer and scratch the timber with it. “I dunno.”

“She sent you the card. Maybe she wants to get to know you.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, ’course.” Troy starts pacing the room. “This is unbelievable. The only thing that goes missing in our house is socks. We don’t lose family members.”

I stab the front of the drawer with the Mayberry pin. “Hilarious, Troy – not.”

“Sorry, mate, but this sort of stuff never happens to me. If you go looking for her, you can count me in.”

I hand Troy the email from Scott Reesborough and tell him what Scott told me on the phone about Barry Hill.

“I’m thinking of checking out this Barry Hill place. What do you reckon?”

Troy nods. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Scott reckons she had some sort of a breakdown after Year Twelve. You don’t think she’s a nutter, do you?”

Troy looks at me as if I’m the one that’s crazy. “I’d have a breakdown too if my parents made me do Year Twelve. We can go there tomorrow, if you want.”

“Thanks, mate. But I reckon I’d rather go on my own.”

“Come off it. This is the most action I’ve had all year. You can’t shut me out now.”

“Yeah, well too bad. This is something I have to do by myself.”

Troy shrugs. “Suit yourself. But I want to know
everything
when you get back.”

Dear Leonardo
,

I’m pretty freaked at the idea of seeing my mum after all this time. What if she never recovered from her breakdown?

No, she must have – she married Dave and had me, so she must have got better
.

Is finding your long-lost mother a good idea or not?

Did it work for you?

Dumb I know, asking you all these questions. But I reckon you’ve got as much chance of giving me the answers as anyone else
.

Doesn’t say much, does it?

Matt

Sons and the Single Parent

ROSENBAUM TACTIC NUMBER 23

If your son refuses to talk to you about a problem, act as if nothing is wrong. Don’t try and force the issue
.

That’s Dave’s plan for today. At breakfast, he says nothing about PC Huggins, the water tank,
Dave Hudson is a liar
or the ransacked bedroom that we never discussed either.

“Have a good day at school,” Dave says cheerily as he saunters out the door.

I don’t look up from the breadcrumb maze I’m making on my plate. I am not going to school. Why should I? Why should I do
anything
Dave wants me to do? Besides, school and listening to Mrs D and her sarcasm is a waste of time – a waste of minutes and hours I could be using to keep searching.

I’m the only one who gets off the bus at Barry Hill. The car park’s empty. It’s not like a normal hospital where kids and parents spill out of cars clutching cellophane-wrapped flowers.

The only other person in sight is a boy in a blue shirt with a red baseball cap on backwards, dragging a billycart to the top of a concrete path that leads to the car park. He pushes off and disappears down the hill.

I walk slowly towards the hospital. The grass needs a good mow, like the lawn at home. That’s what happens when you only have one parent and they work practically seven days a week. I offered to do the mowing once, but Dave reckoned, “The lawnmower’s too temperamental. Unless you know its habits, it’s likely to take your leg off.”

“Whatever.” It wasn’t like I was desperate to mow the lawn – I never asked again.

A red stone path meanders up to Barry Hill. The main hospital wing is two storeys high with an attic at the top.
Wonder who they keep up there
.

As I climb higher, the sun comes out, casting my shadow on the concrete. Huge steps lead to double wooden doors that are covered in cobwebs and the shell of a centipede hangs upside down from one thread.

I shiver.

Maybe I should have let Troy come after all.

I try to open the massive dungeon-like doors. They’re locked and won’t budge. I go cold all over. Is Mum in there? How can you seriously expect anyone to get well in a depressing place like this?

Dear Leonardo
,

Seems like the mystery of Mum could be like the truth behind your Mona Lisa – impossible to discover
.

Went to Barry Hill and it was closed. I don’t mean “door shut, come back tomorrow” kind of closed. I mean gone. There is no Barry Hill “psychiatric facility” any more
.

Haven’t been any patients there for eight years
.

So, when it comes to finding Mum, I’m back where I started, which is nowhere!

Where do I go from here? Who knows? Everyone has a theory on what’s behind Mona Lisa’s smile. That’s what I need – a theory on how to find lost mothers who you thought were dead!

Your Lisa’s not the only one who’s an enigma
.

Wish me luck, Leo
.

Matt