Letters to Leonardo (12 page)

Matt

I’m up before Dave. I eat a quick breakfast and race out the door just in time to catch the bus to Melbourne.

I sit behind a woman with a little kid. We pass factories covered with red and purple graffiti. The kid keeps asking questions. “Who painted that, Mum? What does that word say? Are we there yet?” Finally, he falls asleep with his mother’s arm around his shoulder.

At Southern Cross Station the mother carries the son off the bus. I help her with the luggage. A lit-up board tells me that the train to Hillton is leaving from platform six in five minutes. I bolt.

On the train I can hardly sit still. I take sips of water from the bubbler at the end of the carriage. All the water makes me go to the toilet. I have to keep squeezing past an old lady with a trolley until eventually she asks, “Could we swap seats?”

“Sorry.”

She sniffs. “Do you have a bladder problem?”

“No, I’m a bit nervous, that’s all.” And embarrassed.

When we stop at a station, I move to another carriage and grab a seat near the window. I close my eyes and try to calm myself down. Mum can’t see me in this state. I want her to think I’m cool – that I’ve grown up okay.

I take deep breaths, filling my chest with air then exhaling as slowly as I can. My heart stops racing and I open my eyes. I try counting sheep in the paddocks as we whiz by, but we’re going too fast. I look at the people around me, and make up stories in my head about who they are and where they’re going. I stop when a guy with a ring through his chin wants to know what I’m “gawking at”.

The train slows and I can see a sign that says, “Hillton”.

Ten of us get off the train and wait for it to leave the station before we cross to the platform that takes you into town. I count the cracks in the bluestone walls while we wait. I try not to think about what’s about to happen.

Mum’s house is a five-minute walk from the station. Hillton isn’t big. The house is just like she described it to me on the telephone. It’s hidden behind a row of huge peppercorn trees. They’re like a fortress, their thick trunks blocking out all light and sound from the outside world. There’s a cattle grid, too wide to jump, at the end of a long gravel-covered driveway. On one side of the driveway is a massive rusty shed with a broken windmill towering over it

I clank across the cattle grid. A sign on the front of the shed says, “Keep clear. Park this side.” It has an arrow pointing up the driveway. Maybe the shed’s Mum’s art studio.

The front fence is falling down and the gate sags off its hinges. It seems to be rusted in place – half open. I follow a stone path winding from the driveway towards the house. It leads to a wide verandah with two broken chairs and a tree stump for a table between them.

Just next to the front door is a table with a half-drunk cup of coffee that still has steam rising from it. The coffee’s black and thick like tar.

I press the doorbell and wait, but can’t hear anything coming from inside the house. Not even the sound of the bell. Must be disconnected. There’s a brown security door that has mesh so thick that you can’t see through it.

I hear footsteps on wooden boards. I feel like a piano accordion with all the air squeezed out. She’s here. I’m going to see my mother for the first time in ten years. All I’ve wanted to do since I found out she wasn’t dead is to find her; ask her why she never came back; why she never even tried to visit. Find out about her – her painting – what she’s really like. In the back of my mind is all that stuff Dave told me about her and the newspaper articles about those times she left me. She sounded fine on the phone. Not happy, not sad, not strange, not surprised: almost like she expected me to call.

The footsteps disappear. My stomach does a leap. I follow the verandah around the house, looking through windows. There are no lights on inside, but she has to be there. She knew I was coming – she invited me. And I heard her walking through the house.

Where is she? I knock hard on the door. No answer. I look at my watch. “Damn!” I knock harder. Still no answer. There’s a metal echidna shoe scraper near the front door. I pick it up and use it to rap as loudly as I can. It’s heavy. After three knocks I have to put it down again. Whoever is in that house
must
have heard me. My stomach is a blender, mixing everything together at high speed. Why won’t she answer the door? Is she having one of her episodes? Another breakdown? Maybe she never got well? Is she lying to me too? Did she stay away because of Dave or because she never really loved me?

I want to pick up that stupid shoe scraper and toss it through the window. That would get a reaction. Does that make
me
crazy?

I fling my backpack on the ground. The zip splits open and my life over the last ten years spills out – all the stuff I chose so carefully to show Mum. Talk about an anticlimax. All this expectation for nothing – nothing but the hurt of knowing that no matter what she said on the phone, she doesn’t really want me.

I should leave, head back to the station. But I have a right to be here. She’s my mother. And I haven’t done anything wrong. I feel the mug. The coffee’s hot. I’m sure she’s inside. Why is she stuffing me around?

“I’m not going without seeing you,” I yell. I look around, expecting to see neighbours peering over the fence, but there’s no sign of anyone.

How can I make her show herself? I walk back up the stone path to the driveway and across to the shed. Maybe she’s there, painting. I know this doesn’t really make sense because the footsteps came from inside the house, but I don’t know what else to do.

I knock on a side door but nobody answers. It’s locked. I walk around the back to what looks like the shed’s main entrance. It takes both hands to open the heavy sliding door.

I walk around, looking at her half-finished paintings. It makes me think of something I read that Leonardo said, “I have offended God and mankind because my work didn’t reach the quality it should have.”

Perhaps it’s part of being a great talent – you never think that what you do is good enough – or complete.

My heart thumps as I look at Mum’s paintings. They are amazing! The one I like best is a huge orange fireball on a black background. It looks hot and fierce, the way the anger against Dave still feels inside me. Wonder if he’s the motivation behind this painting.

A white cat peeps from behind an easel.

I crouch down and call softly, “Here, puss.”

She creeps out cautiously, followed by two tiny kittens that mew as they run after her. When they get close to me, they start spitting.

“It’s all right. Don’t be scared,” I whisper.

I pat the mother cat and she rubs against me purring. My legs cramp up, so I stand. When I look down again, the cats are gone. I start to wonder if they were really there in the first place.

I walk out through the sliding door and back towards the front of the house. I take out my mobile phone and dial Mum’s number. The phone rings inside, but she doesn’t pick up. I wait for it to ring out. Try three times. I’m starting to think that even if she came to the front door and told me to go away, that would be better than the silence. Then at least I would have seen her.

I call Troy. “She’s here,” I tell him. “But she won’t let me in.”

“You’re kidding?”

I kick the dirt. “I can’t believe I’ve come all this way and now she won’t even answer the door. She must know I’m here.”

“What kind of game is she playing?”

I kick the dirt harder. “Probably never wanted me here. Just invited me to be polite.”

Troy’s voice comes through louder. “Maybe she’s scared she won’t be what you expected.”

“I’m not expecting anything. I just want to see my mum.” My voice cracks.

“Hang in there, mate.”

“Yeah. Will you cover for me? I told Dave I’d be at your house.”

“No worries.”

“Thanks, Troy.” I wipe my wet eyes with the back of my hand.

“So, what’s it like where she lives?” asks Troy.

It’s getting harder for me to talk. There’s a lump in my throat that’s getting bigger and bigger, a picture I keep getting in my head of Mum walking away and a small voice that whispers, “She hates you.”

“Gotta go. Tell you more when I see you.” I hang up.

I give myself a minute to get it together, then I phone Dave to tell him that I’m staying the night at Troy’s.

After I’ve taken care of the phone calls, I go back to the front door of the house. There’s still no answer when I knock. I don’t know what else to do. My stomach grumbles, calls for attention. I haven’t eaten for ages. I sit on the front steps and eat a chocolate bar from my pack.

I know Mum’s in there. She’s expecting me. She asked me here. So why doesn’t she answer the door? Stuff her! I’ll wait here all night if I have to.

Around half past five, the mosquitoes attack. They cover my arms with itchy red bumps. I’ve eaten everything I’ve brought with me and I’m still starving. Didn’t expect to be here so long.

A light goes on in the house – not sure where, it’s probably in the kitchen. I pick up the shoe scraper and knock as loud as I can. No answer. Must be where I got my staying power. She’s determined not to answer the door and I’m determined not to leave until she does.

I creep all around the outside of the house, peering in the windows. Each one is framed with cobwebs and a couple are cracked. It wouldn’t be too hard to push the glass in, but I don’t. All the curtains are drawn, and it’s impossible to see which room the light is actually coming from. I wonder if she knows I am still here.

Then I smell food – something hot – smells like soup. It triggers a memory. A small boy sitting on a stool, watching his mother chop vegetables and toss them into a steaming pot. An involuntary tear slides down my cheek. The aroma of hot food wafts out to me, making my stomach growl. I shiver. The night air is moving in. An owl hoots. And I realise I’ve missed the last train home.

Hungry and cold, I retreat to the shed for the night. Now that I’ve come this far, I’m not going anywhere.

When it’s too dark to even look at Mum’s paintings, I curl up on a pile of sacks next to the cats and go to sleep, feeling even more confused than I was when I hopped on the bus this morning.

I’m woken by purring.

“Sorry, I don’t have food for you. I don’t even have anything left for myself.” I pat the mother cat.

I’m just about to stand up, when I hear the side door of the shed open. It’s Mum. It has to be.

I feel sick. I go hot then cold.

Now that I’m finally about to come face to face with her, I feel like I need more time. I need to buy myself a few extra minutes. I lie down again and pretend to sleep; my right is eye open a slash so I can still watch.

She doesn’t notice me at first. She sits in front of one of her paintings and runs her brush lovingly over the canvas. After nearly every stroke, she stops to look at what she has done – as if each one has to be perfect. Her dark braided hair stretches down her back like a piece of rope. She shakes it every now and then, and it swings and sways against her, like the pendulum on a grandfather clock. She doesn’t seem to be aware of anything around her.

Suddenly, she stiffens. Her brushstrokes get faster, as if she’s angry. The only time she stops is to dip her brush in the paint. She’s totally focused on what she’s doing, but still I don’t think I’ll be able to get out of either door without being seen.

I have a whole new set of questions for her. Why didn’t you answer the door yesterday – especially when you knew I was coming? Why did you pretend you weren’t home? Don’t you want me here? What did you expect me to do? Don’t you care that I came all this way to see you? Do you really care about me? My brain flings these angry questions that almost reach my lips, but I keep my mouth closed tightly so they can’t escape. I lie there watching.

After she finishes, she stands up. It’s only a matter of time before I’m found out. Not sure what to do, I close my eyes again. Footsteps come closer. I can’t stop myself from looking. I peer out from under half-closed lids.

Material from her skirt brushes against me as she kneels down. The contact makes my skin tingle. Her perfume wafts through my memory, making my chest tight.