stick figure drawing of a bird.
“Don’t forget to look at the tree,” Mom says.
“But there’s no woodpecker there.”
“You have to pretend that there is.”
I stay focused on my drawing. “Pretend that I’m pretending.”
“Pretend that I’m not going to stick a pencil inyour eye if you don’t look into the branches.”
I lean back and stare at the empty tree. “I think he’s coming into view.”
“Happy to hear it.” Mom continues drawing while I continue glancing back and forth between the tree and my paper. Every once in a while, the air fills with the sound of his drumming. Rat-tat-tat-tat …
Mom smiles. “We hear you.”
She never looks happier than when she is drawing.In fact, she says that her sketchbooks made as big a difference during her cancer treatments as the pain medicine that the doctors gave her. Even at her sickest, she tried to create at least one drawing every single day. Sometimes she drew stuff out of her head. Other times, she sketched nurses and orderlies and other patients. Once, she was so tired that she could barely sit up, but she struggledthrough a detailed drawing of her own scrawny fingers holding a pencil.
“You could take a day off,” I told her then.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
“I want to be an artist.”
“You are an artist.”
“Artists make art.”
Now, Mom adds small details to her woodpecker so that the feathers on its head look like a messy crown. “You should write a book,” I say.
“About what?” she asks.
“Howto fight cancer with colored pencils.”
Mom doesn’t looks up. “Who says I was fighting cancer?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Lucy,” Mom says, “I’m not one of those people who think that cancer is some kind of jousting match. People live or die based on good medicine, good luck, and the grace of God. The people who die from it did not fail. The people who live will die another day.”
My chestfills with a sudden, familiar pressure. I do not know how many times my heart has been broken and remade during this last year. “I’m glad you didn’t die,” I say.
“I’m glad too,” Mom says, “but there were some days that death was the only thing that kept me going.”
I look up. “I don’t understand.”
Mom turns her face to me. “Just so we’re clear, being sick did not make me want to die.”
“Okay.”
“But it sure made me want to stop being sick. I figured that if I didn’t get better, at least I would die and then I wouldn’t feel so rotten anymore. One way or another, there was a light at the end of the tunnel.”
“I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
“Always look on the bright side of life, Lucy. And anyway, it’s not like death is the end of the world.”
“You mean heaven?” I ask.
“Imean people die every day, and the world is still spinning.” Mom takes my paper and turns it around to study it. “That’s a good thing.”
“Are you talking about life, death, or my bird?”
“Life is good. Death is a mystery. The bird needs work.”
I take my paper, turn it over, and try again. This time, I don’t bother looking at the trees or at Mom or anything. I just draw what’s on my mind. WhenI’m done, a little black bird sits on my page. It’s more like a cartoon than the realistic drawings that Mom makes, but it’s lively and confident and I like it.
“Nice,” says Mom.
“Really?” I ask.
She nods. “What kind of bird is it?”
“Does it matter?” I ask.
“If it’s art, then everything matters.”
I stare down at my drawing. “It’s a mockingbird.”
10
I Kill the Mockingbird
After lunch, I tuck my mockingbird sketch into a back pocket and let Mom know that I’m going to head to the bookshop for the afternoon.
“Look both ways before you cross the street,” she tells me.
I start to protest, but then it strikes me that if I am very lucky I will be able to offer annoying safety tips to my own children one
“Don’t forget to look at the tree,” Mom says.
“But there’s no woodpecker there.”
“You have to pretend that there is.”
I stay focused on my drawing. “Pretend that I’m pretending.”
“Pretend that I’m not going to stick a pencil inyour eye if you don’t look into the branches.”
I lean back and stare at the empty tree. “I think he’s coming into view.”
“Happy to hear it.” Mom continues drawing while I continue glancing back and forth between the tree and my paper. Every once in a while, the air fills with the sound of his drumming. Rat-tat-tat-tat …
Mom smiles. “We hear you.”
She never looks happier than when she is drawing.In fact, she says that her sketchbooks made as big a difference during her cancer treatments as the pain medicine that the doctors gave her. Even at her sickest, she tried to create at least one drawing every single day. Sometimes she drew stuff out of her head. Other times, she sketched nurses and orderlies and other patients. Once, she was so tired that she could barely sit up, but she struggledthrough a detailed drawing of her own scrawny fingers holding a pencil.
“You could take a day off,” I told her then.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
“I want to be an artist.”
“You are an artist.”
“Artists make art.”
Now, Mom adds small details to her woodpecker so that the feathers on its head look like a messy crown. “You should write a book,” I say.
“About what?” she asks.
“Howto fight cancer with colored pencils.”
Mom doesn’t looks up. “Who says I was fighting cancer?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Lucy,” Mom says, “I’m not one of those people who think that cancer is some kind of jousting match. People live or die based on good medicine, good luck, and the grace of God. The people who die from it did not fail. The people who live will die another day.”
My chestfills with a sudden, familiar pressure. I do not know how many times my heart has been broken and remade during this last year. “I’m glad you didn’t die,” I say.
“I’m glad too,” Mom says, “but there were some days that death was the only thing that kept me going.”
I look up. “I don’t understand.”
Mom turns her face to me. “Just so we’re clear, being sick did not make me want to die.”
“Okay.”
“But it sure made me want to stop being sick. I figured that if I didn’t get better, at least I would die and then I wouldn’t feel so rotten anymore. One way or another, there was a light at the end of the tunnel.”
“I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
“Always look on the bright side of life, Lucy. And anyway, it’s not like death is the end of the world.”
“You mean heaven?” I ask.
“Imean people die every day, and the world is still spinning.” Mom takes my paper and turns it around to study it. “That’s a good thing.”
“Are you talking about life, death, or my bird?”
“Life is good. Death is a mystery. The bird needs work.”
I take my paper, turn it over, and try again. This time, I don’t bother looking at the trees or at Mom or anything. I just draw what’s on my mind. WhenI’m done, a little black bird sits on my page. It’s more like a cartoon than the realistic drawings that Mom makes, but it’s lively and confident and I like it.
“Nice,” says Mom.
“Really?” I ask.
She nods. “What kind of bird is it?”
“Does it matter?” I ask.
“If it’s art, then everything matters.”
I stare down at my drawing. “It’s a mockingbird.”
10
I Kill the Mockingbird
After lunch, I tuck my mockingbird sketch into a back pocket and let Mom know that I’m going to head to the bookshop for the afternoon.
“Look both ways before you cross the street,” she tells me.
I start to protest, but then it strikes me that if I am very lucky I will be able to offer annoying safety tips to my own children one
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