Drawing 30,000 Suns for Mom

My mother's palm cracked across my back—not hard, but loud.

"Jamie, tell me again. What's the first thing you do when you wake up in the morning?"

I kept my head down. "Get... get dressed."

"And then?"

"Brush my teeth... wash my face."

"And then?" Her voice was frantic.

My head felt stuffed with cotton. I looked at the piece of paper she'd left on the table—a little stick figure drawn next to a round yellow disc. A fried egg.

"Make... make a fried egg," I said.

"How?" She grabbed my shoulders and shook them. "What's the first step?"

"Turn... turn on the stove."

I remembered that one. There was a red flame drawn on the paper.

"Second step!"

"Pour... in the oil."

There was a clear little bottle drawn there too.

"Third step! Jamie! What's the third step?"

I couldn't remember. There was a cracked eggshell drawn on the paper, half broken open, and I didn't understand what it meant.

I looked at my mother. Her eyes were red.

"Mom... Jamie's... dumb."

She turned away from me all at once, her shoulders shaking. I heard her drag in a breath, and then a violent fit of coughing tore out of her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth, but red liquid still leaked out between her fingers.

She turned back and pulled me into a hug, holding me so tight it hurt.

"Jamie... Mom doesn't have much time left. Mom's going to another world soon. You have to learn to... take care of yourself."

I didn't understand what another world was. I only knew my mother was shaking, and her tears burned where they fell on my neck.

"Wherever Mom goes, Jamie goes too."

I cried and kissed her neck, and told her, very seriously, "Jamie's going with Mom."

"No!" She pushed me back, her red-rimmed eyes fixed on mine. "Jamie, don't cry! Be strong!"

I was so startled I swallowed my tears.

She cupped my face in her hands and said, slow and deliberate, "We're going to make a promise. Starting tomorrow, you'll draw one sun a day in your notebook. No skipping, no cheating—you have to fill it with thirty thousand suns. Only when you've drawn the last one can you come find me."

Thirty thousand suns...?

"This isn't a request. It's an order. A promise." She wiped the tear tracks off my face. "Remember—until you finish, Mom won't see you. And if you sneak off to find me before you're done, you'll never see Mom again."

I didn't fully understand, but I understood that last part.

"Okay! Jamie... won't cry. Jamie will draw suns."

...

My mother slept a long sleep. It had been three days.

She hadn't coughed once. She hadn't made me recite the steps for frying an egg. She slept so quietly, her face pale as the clouds outside, and that red water that used to come out of her mouth like shattered flower petals didn't come anymore.

I sat on the little stool by her bed and held her hand. It was cold, cold as the frost that crept over our window in winter. I tucked it into my armpit, trying to warm it the way she used to warm my feet. It didn't work. Her hand stayed cold.

That day, a lot of men came to the house, all wearing the same blue uniforms.

Carol Dawson, our downstairs neighbor, came too. Her eyes went red the second she walked in. She crouched down and touched my head, her mouth working like she wanted to say something, but nothing came out—just a long, heavy sigh.

The men went into my mother's room and carried her out on the bed. They'd covered her with a white sheet, cleaner than any sheet we'd ever owned—no yellow stain on it from the nights I wet the bed.

I wanted to follow. I wanted to see where they were taking her. She was going to another world. She'd told me herself.

Mrs. Dawson grabbed my arm. "Be a good boy, Jamie. You can't watch this."

I didn't understand why not. My mother going to another world was important. And then I remembered our promise. She'd said I couldn't follow her—that I had to start drawing suns, or I'd be breaking the rules. A child who broke the rules would never see his mother again.

I wrenched free of Mrs. Dawson and ran back to my room. I dragged out the battered cardboard box from under my bed. Inside was the new notebook my mother had filled with hundreds of little squares, and a full box of yellow crayons. I lay flat on the floor, picked out the yellowest crayon, and pressed hard, drawing my first sun in the first square.

It wasn't round. It came out crooked, like a fried egg someone had sat on.

I drew a second one. Then a third. Each time, I counted in my head. One, two, three. Still such a long way to thirty thousand.

I was still drawing, hard at work, when Mrs. Dawson pushed open my door. Behind her stood a tall, thin woman.

Mrs. Dawson pointed at her. "Jamie, this is your sister."

I looked up. She was pretty, with long hair and big eyes. But there was no light in those eyes—they were like the black glass marble I'd lost under my bed, cold enough to make my skin crawl.

Her jeans were ripped through in several places, and a cigarette hung from her lips. The smoke stung my nose.

I remembered my mother telling me I had a sister. In the photos, that sister had been smiling. This woman standing in front of me wasn't smiling at all.

I got up off the floor and walked over to her, leaning in the way a puppy would, sniffing carefully. My mother's smell was soap and sun-warmed blankets, all mixed together—warm enough to make you want to fall asleep just breathing it in. This sister smelled like something cold: rain and metal, sharp and unpleasant. She wasn't my family. Family didn't smell like that.

She saw me sniffing at her and frowned, hard, stepping back like I was some filthy stray dog.

"Fine. I get it. I'll take him," she told Mrs. Dawson. Her voice was dry and flat.

Mrs. Dawson looked like she wanted to say more, but in the end, she just touched my head, tucked my crayons and notebook into my backpack, and let it go.

And that's how I left with the sister who didn't smell like sunshine.