A Map of the Known World (8 page)

Now, my mother ceaselessly tries to engage my father, but he is unwilling to be drawn into a fight. The house is much quieter, but the silence is worse.

I snap the book closed. I can’t concentrate. All I can think of is Nate and how angry at him and at my parents I am. How sick of all this anger I am. It’s poison. My body feels like it is humming; I can’t sit here any longer. For the second time tonight, I check to see if either of my parents is up and moving around the house. The hallway is silent and empty. Suddenly, I feel possessed by a wild recklessness. I don’t care if they do catch me. I am going out, and no one is going to stop me.

I fling open the garage door and run outside. The air is cool and clean. I hop on my bike and start pedaling fast. Faster. I am soaring down the streets of Lincoln Grove, onto the county road, and letting my body lean into each curve, I make my way in the growing darkness to the creek. When I reach the spot, I
throw my bicycle on the ground and sprint to the weeping willow tree. There, I fall down, hugging the tree’s broad trunk for support.

“I can’t do this.” Sobs are filling my throat, filling the night. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.”

What a waste. What a terrible waste. He died and I never really got to know him. I never got to know what he did, what he could do. He will never get to show everybody what he could do. I don’t even think
he
knew what he could have done. My gut burns with the same fiery pain I felt on the night he died.

A tempest is raging inside of me, outside of me, and I feel the sky might fall down, come crashing about my head. The ache inside of me keeps me rooted to the ground, to the base of the willow tree.

What was the point of your dying when the rest of the world keeps going? We have to keep living without you, Nate! We have to live and go to school and eat breakfast and
live
without you. Julie is making out with other guys, and this stupid world keeps spinning, even without you in it! What is the point? What is the point of any of it?
I want to scream at the heavens.

No meaning, no point.

And if the whole world can crumble to pieces at any moment, why should we struggle to make it through the days and months? Why should we pour our hearts into paintings and stories and families and love if the sky could fall down at any moment? Terrifying, terrifying.

The sun is setting, and the sky is a milky violet, the first star twinkling in the eastern horizon.

What is the point?

As if in response, a strange silvery light falls across the ground where I lie. When I glance up, the moon has risen and hangs low in the heavens. It is a big full moon. As I gaze at it, I can make out the gray eddies of crater and mountain, a whole landscape up there, suspended in the sky. The enormity of the moon sings to me and quells my rage. I feel the singing of the moon in all its hoary beauty like a balm. Yes, I am in the world now.

The singing rings and sings in my ears, and I stare out at the land around me. There, just at the edge of the creek bed, stands a slender white bird. Slender and white like a crane. It seems to have simply appeared, and, oh, what an elegant figure it makes. The neck is long and slim and plunges into a curved back in a single, flowing line. White downy wings are tucked tight to its body, and in the moonlight, the bird seems to glow with an ethereal light.

The bird wades into the water, dipping its pointed orange beak below the surface. Its neck arches and bends in one fluid movement, and lifts, its stark whiteness standing out against the darkening trees and rocks and grass. The bird cocks its head, one eye staring curiously at me. I have never seen such a beautiful creature.

The sweep of its back is subtle and full of grace. I long to sing to it, and my heart longs to sing, too, and all I can do is sit there, transfixed. The bird remains motionless, continuing to watch me, suffering my lingering gaze. Then it turns and bends to stir the water with its beak. All is silent, all is still.

As the warm strength of the tree behind me holds up my back, and I behold the beautiful bird before me, I feel a sudden peace descend. Never have I seen such beauty and felt such peace.

I wish I had my pad and pencils. I want to draw this bird, this perfect wooded spot, with its brown trickling water, cool gray rocks, and bowed and beautiful weeping willow tree. This place I used to share with my brother.

The quiet and beauty of this moment fill my head with a soaring ecstasy. This,
this
is the world. This is life, able to give us such beauty, such love. And the immensity of these gifts is boundless. I can use my pencils and charcoals and pastels and paintbrushes and capture this moment, capture all of this meaning. There is so much beauty to be found in the world, and art…
art
is the point.

I
remember the first time I came to the creek by myself, three years ago. My mother had bought blood oranges—another first for me—from the supermarket; they were imported specially from someplace far away, Morocco or Spain, maybe. I had secreted one of the oranges into my pocket as if it were a precious jewel and I a thief, and I’d ridden my bike quickly and directly to the creek. There was no better place to open up the bruise-colored orange-and-violet peel, to open the door to this other world. The creek itself was practically a sacred place for me—for Nate and me, once. As I sat beneath the weeping willow tree and began to tear away the thick skin, exposing the crimson-purple flesh of the fruit, I imagined I was entering some magical, exotic country. A land of dark-haired, black-eyed women, and sand and secret garden courtyards.

Someday I will travel. I have nursed that fantasy and grown it, in my drawings and maps, in my eagerness to get out of the house, this town. Now, though, now I know what to do.

I ease my bike back into the garage and open the door.
There is no light. My parents are not in sight. I tiptoe down the hall and up the stairs to my bedroom. Immediately, I reach for my sketch pad and open the box of Nate’s pencils. Get to work, Squirt, I imagine Nate saying.

Then I begin to make a list.

I will map the world that I know better than anything. The world, the places I’ve shared with Nate. And I will finish his last, unfinished piece with this map of the known world. I’ll draw the places we used to go and the kids we used to be. Then I will mount this map on the pedestal Nate built.

I grab my cell phone and search for Damian’s number. For a second, I feel a flutter in my belly as I remember him taking the phone out of my hands and punching in his number. I’m thankful he did it. Then I push aside the butterflies, shoo them out of my system, and dial.

“Hello?” His voice sounds scratchy.

“Hi, did I wake you?”

“No. Cora? Is that you?” He sounds clear now.

“Yeah…Well, I was calling because I wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Do you think I could come to the barn with you after school on Monday? I want to see your studio again,” I tell him.

“Uh, yeah, but are you sure? Won’t your mom flip out?” he asks uncertainly.

“Well, I’m not going to tell her. I’ll just have to make sure I get home before she does,” I answer.

“All right, no problem. See you Monday?” he replies.

“Yes, I’ll see you Monday.” I hang up feeling happier, lighter than I have in a long time. As I get into bed, my heart is filled with hope.

When Sunday comes, I leave the house as the sun rises, hastily making myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and stuffing it, along with a drawing tablet and my pencils, in my backpack. I grab the list I made last night and jump on my bike. I will make the rounds today, visiting all of the places that had ever meant something to me and to Nate.

First, I ride to the swimming pool. It is vacant, closed up for the winter. The front gate is chained shut with a massive
padlock. I lean my bike up against the fence and begin to walk around it, peering through the chain links, looking at the empty pool. I’m able to see for the first time the steep slope of the bottom, as it graduates from the shallow to deep end. I stare at the waterslide, and find myself picturing my eight-year-old self perched nervously at the top of the ladder, scared to let go and slide down the curving rivulet of water. I can see twelve-year-old Nate treading water at the bottom, calling for me to just let go and slide.

“Come on, Squirt! You can do it, Cor. Come on, I’ll catch you! Nothing bad will happen, promise!” he had said. He had been so patient, so kind to me back then. The memory prods like a blunt blade.

I settle down on the ground and, facing the swimming area, pull out my sketch pad and pencils. Hastily, I begin to lay out the sweeping expanse of lawn, reimagining the blue-and-white lounge chairs that dot the grass in the summertime, the water rushing down the slide, a gang of teenagers gathered around the diving board, little kids splashing noisily in the shallow end of the pool, and old ladies in swim caps and frilly bathing suits slowly doing doggie-paddle laps. I draw it all. And I add a small girl, myself at the top of the slide, Nate at the bottom, coaxing me to come to him.

When I am finished, I pack my supplies and get back on the bike. Next, I ride to the baseball diamond in a park that is a
quarter of a mile from the pool. The park where Nate and I had played freeze tag with a whole crew of kids from the neighborhood. The grass grows tall in this field—it always has—except where a baseball diamond has been cut into it. The stationary plastic bases are anchored into the ground, and the baselines are faded, mostly invisible now. I remember sitting between my parents, squeezed onto the tiny bleachers as we watched Nate play ball with his Little League team. Thermoses of hot chocolate and bags of caramel popcorn were passed between my mom and dad and me, as we cheered for the Lincoln Hawks. Nate had played first base, and when he manned his base, his eyes would scrunch up, and he’d stay crouched like a cat, always at the ready to spring after a ball. I was so proud of him. He used to seem so grown-up and capable.

I quickly sketch a picture of cheering onlookers, the Hawks in their pin-striped uniforms, opponents at bat. Then I pack up again and move away from the baseball field. I head out toward the playground that floats like an island of mulch and plastic and steel in the middle of the sea of grass. I walk through the tangle of swings and monkey bars, give the merry-go-round a shove and watch as it spins and spins. Then I sit down on the tire swing, pushing off the ground with my feet, and lean back as the swing tips and moves jerkily under the uneven weight, then faster and faster. I pump my legs and stand up on the tire, clinging to the chains. They’re creaking and groaning, and I really hope that they aren’t the same chains
that held up the swing when I was a little kid. The tire swings higher and faster. I feel like I’m flying. The joy and lightness of last night returns. I imagine the white bird is above me, circling in the sky. But something tells me I will never see it again. It was a thing of mystery. And actually, in the light of day, I wonder if it was even real. But I don’t want to dwell on this question. All I know, all that matters is that I saw it and felt its beauty and let that beauty enter me.

As I rock back and forth on the tire swing, I think about when my dad used to take Nate and me to the playground. We’d crowd onto the tire together, begging our dad to push us. Harder. Harder. As we picked up speed, Nate would throw back his head and laugh wildly, shouting and grinning. I loved his abandon, the way he could just laugh and laugh. Dropping my feet, I drag the swing to a halt. Then, I pull out my pencils and pad. I draw tiny crosshatch strokes, filling in two little children perched on the tire swing, calling up the pure joy in Nate’s eight-year-old face, a dad pushing them from behind, his face lit with pleasure, as well, and I feel this twinge of happiness.

I spend the rest of the day visiting the middle school we attended together; the Wyatt cornfields, where we used to play spies; the Wilson Farm, where we would take hayrides in the autumn; the skating pond, where we’d go on the coldest days of winter, bundled into our parkas, skates strapped to our feet, and where Nate would sometimes move so quickly, he skimmed the surface of the pond like a bird on wing.

When I was small, probably six or seven, my parents let Nate take me to the pond, just the two of us, and I remember I was wearing so many layers—undershirt, T-shirt, sweater, sweatshirt, parka, ski pants—that I could hardly move. And down I went in the middle of the pond, too laden with clothes to work my way back onto my feet again. Then Nate, spotting me from the other side, flew to me, grabbed my hands and pulled me upright. Walking me over to the benches at the side of the pond, he helped me peel off my sweatshirt, then, pressing a warm hand to my tearstained cheek, he whispered, “Here you go, Squirt, you’re all set.”

I draw and sketch and fill my pad with images of all the places we had loved together. And I can feel the pieces of my heart coming back, glued together with a tenderness, as I revisit all these places, as I allow the memories in, as I let myself really see my town the way I used to when Nate and I were little. And I can almost start to love it again. Almost.

When the sun begins to set, I still have one final place to go. The bent tree off of the county road. It marks the spot where Nate was killed. Slowly, I head through the streets of Lincoln Grove to the county road heading east out of town. My feet move reluctantly on the pedals. I ride along the shoulder of the road and soon come to the part of the guardrail that is dented and misshapen, that is bent in the shape of a Honda Civic. I steer off the shoulder, into the grass at the side of the road. As
I near the big oak tree, my knees begin to shake, and I start to feel queasy.

“You can do this,” I mutter to myself. I swing my leg over the bike seat and walk it the rest of the way.

Then I crawl beneath the umbrella of tree branches, pausing at the foot of its white-gray trunk. I turn and run my hands over the coarse bark, letting my fingers find the evidence of Nate’s accident. There it is. A bumpy seam at about waist height. The tree still bears the scar of his collision. The tree shares my hurt. Once again I bring out my pad and begin to draw. But I don’t draw Nate or his Honda. I just sketch the tree without its scar, the road without any cars. It is a scene of peace.

When I am done, I sit at the base of the tree and close my eyes, letting the cool autumn breeze find my face. It is nearly dinnertime, and my parents are probably freaking out. I take a deep breath and dig my fingers into the dirt beside me. The moss and dead leaves that have fallen from the oak are soft and damp. There is a sweet, familiar scent in the air, clinging to the ground. Here, now, I feel close to Nate. Really close to him.

Time to go. I pedal away from the oak tree, the disfigured guardrail, but I do not look back at any of it. I ride home.

The lights are on outside the house. Quickly, I push the kickstand down and go inside. My mom is in the kitchen. She looks up as I enter.

“Where have you been? I was worried sick,” she says, her voice bleeding exhaustion and worry.

“Sorry. I should have left a note, I guess,” I reply. “I was just riding my bike around.” I do feel sorry. Not too sorry, but enough to be contrite.

“Yes, you should have,” she says, her voice short and tight. “Go wash up, dinner is almost ready.”

Clearly, she isn’t going to broach the subject of our fight last night. That is fine by me. I dash upstairs and wash my hands and face, put away my sketch pad and pencils, and repack my book bag with my schoolbooks. Then I return to the kitchen to sit with my mom in silence and eat a tasteless dinner of microwaved carrots and fish sticks.

I can hear the television filtering down from the den, and I feel a flash of anger. Without saying a word, I get up from the table and run up the stairs. I open the door and find my father sitting slumped in a chair, his head in his hands.

“Dad,” I mumble.

No response.

“Dad!” I repeat, louder.

“What is it?” He doesn’t even turn to look at me.

“Dad, why don’t you come to the kitchen and eat dinner with Mom and me?” I try.

“I’m fine here,” he states flatly, still not meeting my gaze.

“Well, we’re not fine out there. Could you please come?” I hate myself for begging, but a sense of urgency, of desperation
has seized me. I feel like if he doesn’t meet my eye, doesn’t take himself downstairs to sit with us, the whole thing will implode—our family will implode and we’ll never be able to put all the pieces back together.

“Cora, shut the door.”

“Dad—”

“Get out,” he says coldly. “Just go.”

I feel like he slapped me. I jerk my head around and step out of the doorway. I can’t breathe. I pull the door shut hard behind me, but it’s not very satisfying, even when the walls shake around it.

Why does he get to behave that way when the rest of us have to pull it together and move on? He’s my freaking father!

I march back to the kitchen, pick up my fork, and finish eating. My mother and I both pretend that nothing happened. She knows, though. She knows our family is falling apart around us.

I finish eating, put my plate in the sink, and go up to my room. I haven’t done any homework, and now Sunday night is breathing down my neck. The house seems to shudder under the weight of the silence.