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“Yes, really. Once you know the secret, your art will always be beautiful, no matter what you create. You see, the most important thing about art is that…” She watched Ruby lean closer, her eyes widening with the anticipation. “It’s impossible for art to be ugly,” she finished in a matter-of-fact tone, a simple statement of certainty. “It’s literally impossible. If it is art, then it is always beautiful, and you will always find someone who thinks so.”
Ruby’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not true. Art can be ugly. I’ve seen it.”
Hope turned back to her drawing. “No, it can’t. It’sliterallyimpossible. Even if you aren’t happy with what you created, or someone else thinks it isn’t good, I promise someone, somewhere, is going to love it.” She slid her gaze to Ruby, who was staring at her now, totally riveted. “Of course, you have to share your art for that to happen.”
Reaching across the table, she slid the discarded paper forward with one finger. “If you toss it away or hide it, you’ll never know who it is that loves your art and thinks it’s beautiful.”
Ruby frowned down at her drawing. “It’s impossible for this to be ugly?” she asked with a healthy dose of skepticism.
“Literally.”
“What if I scribble on it?”
“That’s called abstract art, and it’s one of the most popular kinds.”
“Oh.” Ruby leaned closer to the drawing, assessing her work.
Hope did as well. It was a picture of three people. A man, a shorter girl, and a taller woman. The man had an interesting blob in the center of his face, which Hope assumed was theuglynose. It was quiteabstract,to say the least, and Hope swallowed a giggle.
“Why don’t you tell me about this picture?” she suggested.
Ruby wiggled in her seat, sitting a little taller, looking proud. “Well, this is my dad,” she said, pointing to the man.
Yep, so it was, shaggy hair and all.
“This is me.” She pointed to the little girl that was sporting pigtails. “And this,” she said, her voice softening. “Wait, it’s not finished.” She hunched over her drawing once more, and Hope’s heart squeezed painfully in her chest as Ruby carefully drew a wing on each side of the woman. “This is my mom.”
The lump in Hope’s throat clogged her airway, making it impossible to speak even if she had the right words. What was she supposed to say to this six-year-old who had just drawn an angel for a mother? She took a shallow, aching breath and said reverently, “She’s beautiful.”
“Yeah,” Ruby agreed. Then she cocked her head up at Hope. “I have a real picture of her. Do you want to see it?”
With the emotion of the moment threatening to take over, she decided to buy herself a minute and nodded. Ruby hopped off her chair and ran down the hall into her bedroom.
Pressing the heel of her hands against her eyes, she took a deep breath and reminded herself that for Ruby, this was normal. Tragic as it was, her mother was gone and had been since before she could remember. She was sharing her reality, and she didn’t need Hope’s emotions to make the moment uncomfortable or sorrowful when it wasn’t those things for her.
By the time Ruby bounded back into the room carrying a box, she had collected herself. Ruby opened the box and took out a photograph. She handed it to Hope with a bright, proud smile. “It’s my favorite picture.” Ruby announced. “Her name was Carrie, and she was pretty, and kind, and a nurse. Daddy said she helped save lives every day. She worked at the hospital in the room where people come when the ambulance drops them off.”
“The emergency room?”
“Yep, that’s it.”
Hope studied the photo. The woman was indeed lovely. She had long, dark, wavy hair that tumbled down her shoulders just like Ruby’s was doing now. She was smiling brilliantly and holding a baby in her arms.
On cue, Ruby pointed at the baby and said, “That’s me.”
Smiling, she tapped her finger on Ruby’s sweet little nose. “I figured.”
Ruby went back to her drawing but continued chatting conversationally. “Everyone says I look like her, even though my eyes are the same color as my daddy’s. But everything else is like my mom. I like that.” She looked up at Hope. “Do you look like your mom?”
“I don’t know.” It was an automatic answer and while it was the truth, Hope hadn’t meant for it to slip out so carelessly. To distract them both, she put the photo back on the table. “What a beautiful picture, Ruby. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
But of course, the six-year-old wasn’t distracted. “How can you not know if you look like your mom?” Then she paused, tilting her head to one side. “Did she die too?”
Hope tensed. She’d gotten herself into this, and now she’d have to get herself out. She chose the truth to get her there.
“No, I have a mom, and she’s alive.” Suddenly, she considered something she hadn’t before. “I think. I don’t actually know. The mom who raised me isn’t the mom that gave birth to me.”
Ruby blinked up at her.
