Letters to Leonardo (17 page)

Next day when I get home from school, Mum’s singing “Don’t cry for me Argentina” so loudly that the neighbours are gazing over the fence. Mum doesn’t seem to care. Just goes on singing.

As I do my homework, I open my window to listen to the sound of her: the whoosh of the vacuum cleaner, the whirr of the washing machine and the click of high-heeled shoes on polished boards.

The phone rings. I pick it up. It’s Mum. “I’m baking a cake,” she says. “To celebrate us finding each other. Why don’t you come over in a half an hour or so?”

I finish my homework, then I head over.

I find her crying in the kitchen.

“I don’t know why it didn’t rise,” she sniffs, pointing to a chocolate cake that looks like a biscuit tin lid.

I pick the cake up. “Don’t worry about it, Mum. We’ll use it as a frisbee.”

That makes her smile. “It’s just that you’re always telling me what a good cook Troy’s mother is,” she says.

I put my arm around her. “She can’t paint like you.”

She pulls away. “But I don’t want to be a painter. I want to be your mother.”

“You are. It doesn’t matter if you can’t cook. I don’t care.”

She hugs me. “You’re so sweet, Matty. Just like your father when I first met him.”

When Dave and I are having tea, I tell him about the cake.

“You should have seen it. Poor Mum got so upset, but it was funny. It looked more like a chocolate pizza.”

Dad looks serious. “I hope she’s still taking her medication.”

“It was just a cake, Dad. You don’t have to make such a big deal.”

Dad shrugs. “I’m just wary. I’ve seen the signs before.”

Why does he have to pick fault with everything Mum does? She’s trying so hard. She even moved down here to be near me. What more does he want from her?

“Dad,” I say, exasperated, “she was upset because she wanted the cake to be perfect. That’s all.”

“We’ll see,” he says. “We’ve got your school play tomorrow. See what she gets up to there.”

The school play is
Antony and Cleopatra
. Tina is Cleopatra so Troy wanted to be Antony, but he forgot to audition. I reckon he’d have done all right as Antony. Instead, they gave the part to a scrawny guy in Year Twelve with a really boring voice.

The play is the first school thing of mine that Mum has been to. She looks amazing in this green and gold dress. The way she hovers, hesitating in the entranceway with the glare of lights behind her, makes her look kind of surreal – other-worldly, like Leonardo’s
Benois Madonna
.

Mum flits between the rows of parents and kids like a Christmas beetle. She seems so happy to be there – enjoying herself. I don’t reckon she gets out much.

Dad sits there: serious, watching her, like he’s waiting for her to slip up.

Even though Mum looks happy, there’s a sharpness in her eyes that makes her confidence seem fragile – like if you said something nasty to her, the facade would fall away. As long as nobody is mean to her, she’ll be fine.

Before the play starts, Mum chats to Mr Madden.

“Better see what she’s up to,” says Dad.

He takes off and comes out on the other side of the crowd.

Troy’s late as usual. I wave when he walks in. He ditches his parents and climbs over the rows of people to take an empty seat next to me.

“Do you mind if Mum sits there?” I ask. It’s the first school event ever that both my parents have been to.

“Sure!” Troy moves to the seat two spots away.

Mr Madden walks to the stage at the front of the room. When I look around I’ve lost sight of Mum.

Dave comes back. His face is flushed and anxious. “Where is she? Have you seen her?”

“Don’t worry, Dad. She’s probably just gone to the toilet. She’ll be okay.”

Dad stands fidgeting in front of the seat that has been left for him. “I knew this was a bad idea,” he says. “We should never have brought her.”

“I wanted her to come, Dad. She’s my mum.”

Mr Madden taps the microphone. “Quiet, please.”

People bustle around, taking the closest seat. Then I spot Mum. She climbs onto the stage and whispers something in the headmaster’s ear. Mr Madden smiles at her and turns back to the microphone.

“Before the performance starts,” he says, “I’m delighted to inform you that well-known artist, Zora, who happens to be the mother of one of our students, has just announced her intention to donate $10 000 towards our arts program. Thank you, Zora. I’m sure many students will benefit from your generous contribution.”

I clap loudly. So does Troy. Dad groans and sinks lower in his chair. “What’s wrong, Dad?” I ask.

“Matt, where do you think she’s going to get that kind of money from? You’ve been to her house. Does she seem rich to you?”

I hadn’t thought about it. I just know I’m proud to have Mum back in my life. Why can’t Dad be happy for me? “Maybe she sold one of her paintings or something. You could be pleased for me, Dad. This is my school. And you’ve never done anything like that.”

Dad groans. “Don’t you see, Matt? This is just another one of her antics.”

“Why do you have to doubt everything she does?” People have started looking at us. Dad puts a finger to his lips and hisses, “Matt, I’ve known her a lot longer than you.”

Whose fault is that?

The play starts. A woman behind nudges me to be quiet. I ignore her. “Yeah well, I reckon it’s no wonder she didn’t stick around the first time. She wouldn’t have got much support from you.”

Dad puts his hand on my arm and says softly, “You don’t know, Matt, you were only a kid.”

At least Troy’s happy. He gets to perve on Tina all night. “Best play I’ve ever seen,” he says at the end.

“Would have been if my parents hadn’t ruined it.”

“Give them time,” Troy reckons.

But I’m not sure that’s going to make the slightest bit of difference.

Dear Leonardo
,

Not sure that fame is all that it’s cracked up to be
.

Doesn’t seem to have done much for Mum
.

Probably just as well you never had kids – trying to learn to live in your footsteps
.

I’m totally conflicted. I’m proud to be like Mum, but terrified on so many levels
.

Matt

I’m a celebrity at school now. Great, just what I needed. Everyone wants to know about my “famous” mum.

Troy reckons it’s awesome. “Fame helps you land the best chicks,” he says.

I don’t want a chick. I’ve got so much to sort out already without making my life more complicated.

“How come we haven’t seen her at school before?” says Jacinta Riley.

“Where’s she been hiding?” asks Reece Burns.

I escape to the library at lunchtime and recess. Man, I’m sick of all their questions – and I can’t give them answers.

I’m sitting reading a book on Renaissance Art, when Lisel Power peeps out from behind the Countries of the World shelves and asks, “What’s it like having a mum who’s rich and famous?”

“No talking in my library,” says Mr Lancel, our “rules are rules” librarian.

Lisel Power pouts at him and walks out. Thanks, Mr Lancel.

After school Mum takes me into town to enrol me in Steve Bridges’s art classes – the ones I’m supposed to have started already, but haven’t got around to because of everything that’s been happening around here lately.

Steve is rapt to meet Mum. She really is famous. Steve says to me, “I can see where you get your talent from.”

Mum signs me up for the classes then goes for a look around Steve’s shop. She takes a set of twenty-four watercolours off the shelf. “Time we got you some decent paints,” she says as she hands over the money to Steve.

I pick the box up off the counter. “Thanks, Mum. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. All those times I’ve missed out on being able to buy my little boy presents.”

I cringe. Steve laughs. “Not so little,” he says.

“What are you doing tonight?” Mum asks me.

I shrug. “Probably homework.”

“No, you’re not. I’m coming over. You need to learn how to use those paints the right way.”

“That would be great, Mum.”

“I’ll show you how to do a proper wash.”

Dad has never bought me paints, let alone encouraged me to use them. It really is going to be cool having Mum around.

Mum doesn’t show. It’s 10.30 and I am still sitting at the kitchen table, pretending I’ve got more homework to do, even though I finished it about an hour ago. I can’t concentrate. My eyes keep wandering out the window to her house. There are no lights on. She must have gone out – must have forgotten.

At first I’m really disappointed, then I start to wonder if maybe she did it deliberately. Maybe she’s testing my dedication. Maybe she’s testing to see if I have the guts to be a painter.

You do need guts for that sort of thing. You put your work out there for people to trash. It’s like laying a part of yourself on the ground for everyone to walk over.

I wonder if that’s why Leonardo never finished anything. Perhaps people rubbished his work before it was even completed.

I really don’t know if I’ve got the guts to be an artist.

Dear Leonardo
,

What sort of a teacher was Verrocchio? Did he help you hang in there – even when people didn’t like what you painted?