A Map Of The Known World Part 11

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.

104.

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 gra.s.s at the side of the road. As 105.

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 coa.r.s.e bark, letting my fingers find the evidence of Nate's accident. There it is. A b.u.mpy 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.

106.

"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 micro waved 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 107.

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:1 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.

108.

Chapter Seven.

Monday stretches on and on. I can barely contain my excitement. I can't wait to get to Damian's studio and begin working on my art project. On Nate's project.

It's only lunchtime. I amble into the cafeteria and look for Rachel in our usual spot by the windows. She isn't there. I must have gotten here first, so I go and sit down. It's awfully surprising when I do find Rachel; she's sitting farther back in the cafeteria at a different table, with Josh and the Nasties and the other Nasty satellite, Elizabeth Tillson. What? I try to catch her eye, thinking Rachel will wave me over to join them. But she studiously avoids looking in my direction. And all the time, my stomach is churning, because even if I'm hoping she'll invite me to sit with them, I know she didn't sit at our table -- didn't wait for me to get there -- on purpose. She didn't want to sit with me at all.

Rachel has totally and completely ditched me. And she's clearly embarra.s.sed of me. I eat my lunch quickly, barely chewing my sandwich, the peanut b.u.t.ter lodging in my throat, 109.

against the crybaby lump that's grown there. When I'm done, I gather my things and hurry to the library.

I pull out my history book and pretend to do my homework, but it's useless. My mind won't stop spinning over the image of Rachel sitting at the end of the Nasties' table, not talking to anyone seated near her, and avoiding my eyes. I bet all the other kids from our cla.s.s, the girls I've known my whole life and was even once friendly with, witnessed the whole humiliating debacle, and now, my loser dom is confirmed. It's probably the lead item in the cla.s.s gossip broadcast. Not only the girl with the dead brother, but the girl with no friends. This is it.

I feel like I'm drowning at the bottom of the deepest sea. There is nowhere for me to go. Home is just as bad as school.

Art -- I have art cla.s.s for last period. Thank goodness. I draw a shaky breath of grat.i.tude. And when the bell rings, I walk meekly, my head bowed, through the hallways, all the way down to the far end of the school to the art studio. And as I step in and look all around at the brightly mismatched colors and images plastered on the walls, the lonely hulks of canvas on easels, and students spread around the cla.s.sroom, as isolated and alone as I feel, I become calm. When I reach my stool and easel, I prop up my sketch pad and turn to the drawings I made the day before.

The swimming pool, the park playground, the baseball field, the tree ... all of it from a time when I didn't know unhappiness. Not real unhappiness. These images are from a time 110.

when I knew only love. When bad things happening, when people leaving, was unthinkable.

Is it possible to live, to exist in the world without any connection to another person? To not care about other people, to not care if other people care about you?

I look up and find Damian sitting across the room, his forehead crinkled as he chews his lower lip and rubs a stick of charcoal between his fingers. He's staring intensely at the paper on the easel before him. He concentrates with such ferocity, I think. He doesn't look up.

"Hey, whatcha working on?"

I startle and surface from my creepy staring and ridiculously moody thoughts. Helena is standing in front of me, curiously studying the drawing perched on my easel. Her flaxen hair hangs loose today, falling in untidy curls around her shoulders, "Huh? Oh, um, just some drawings," I mutter.

"Yes, I can see that they're drawings," Helena replies with a friendly smirk. "What are they for?"

I hesitate. Should I tell Helena? Will she think I'm weird, will she laugh at me? Helena looks at me expectantly with wide blue eyes.

"Well, they're drawings of places my brother and I used to go." I step back and scrutinize Helena's expression, waiting for the mockery I'm sure will follow. But Helena nods -- of course she knows who Nate was, she was at school here last year when 111.

he died -- and she looks even more curious. "And, well, I just wanted to, um, I don't know...." I can't finish, unnerved by Helena's unwavering stare.

"You're sort of making, like, a memorial to him?" Helena asks softly.

Another lump grows in my throat, bigger this time. I nod my head. "Um, yeah. I guess so." I look down at my feet, the torn cuffs of my blue jeans. "Do you think it's dumb?" Why do I always cry? Tears have filled my stupid traitor eyes. Almost reflexively, I turn toward Damian. As if he can feel my gaze on him, he glances over, and he lets a tiny half grin find its way to his lips. Then he returns to his work.

"I think it's a brilliant idea." Helena smiles at me then moves back to her own easel.

Something lifts in my chest, the twenty thousand pounds of seawater and sadness. I turn back to my sketches and flip the pages slowly from one drawing to the next. When I reach the last picture, the one of the tree, the empty road, I sit back on the stool and put a finger to my lips. Not comfortable. I rest my elbows on my knees and my chin on my clasped hands. I tilt my head and cross my legs. I crack my knuckles and twirl a stick of charcoal. Can't stop fidgeting.

"What's up, Cora?" I jump in surprise. Ms. Calico has crept up behind me, silent as a panther. "You've been sitting here fidgeting for the past twenty minutes. What's going on?"

112.

Helena shuffles over, reaching back to pull her hair into a bun. "She's making a memorial to her brother," she offers helpfully. She comes to stand next to Ms. Calico, behind my stool.

"Your brother?" Ms. Calico repeats quietly.

"He died last year, and --" I don't know how to finish.

"So, she drew all these places that they used to go to together," Helena finishes for me.

"I see," Ms. Calico says thoughtfully. "Well, what are you going to do with them?" she asks, moving around to face me.

"I'm not sure," I reply, looking down at my hands.

Ms. Calico begins to carefully thumb through the pages, pausing to examine each drawing. Her forehead creases in contemplation. "These are really good, Cora." As I meet her eyes, she repeats, "What do you think you will do with them?"

I desperately want to tell Ms. Calico and Helena about the sculptures in Damian's studio, about Nate's artwork, about the unfinished piece, and how I want to show the world what Nate did, who he was. But I don't know how to say the words, how to say them without feeling foolish. What if they scorn me the way my mother did? And besides, Damian is here. This is not my secret to tell. He and I share it. There is a fluttering twist in my gut. Damian and I have a secret to share.

I lean back and study Helena and Ms. Calico, their heads bowed close to the sketch pad, to each other, to me. I like the closeness. It feels good. A sense of warmth floods through my 113.

hands and arms and feet and legs and chest. It surrounds my gut, fills in the hollow s.p.a.ce.

"I don't know what to do with them. I'm trying to figure it out," I tell them.

"Well, whenever you do figure it out," Helena says pointedly, "you should put the whole thing someplace where everyone can see it. I think a lot of people would like that."

Really? I can only gape at her.

"I think that's a lovely idea," Ms. Calico agrees. "Cora, if you need any help, if you want to talk about anything, you know where to find me," she tells me before moving over to Helena's easel. "Come, Helena, let's see what you've been up to besides counseling Cora."

I watch them talk. Ms. Calico stands with one foot in front of the other, leaning back, as she listens to Helena describe her painting. Helena speaks animatedly, waving her hands, her curls escaping from their makeshift bun and bouncing around her shoulders. Ms. Calico nods a couple of times, then bends forward to confer quietly with Helena. They make an elegant picture.

I turn back to my own work. How will I transfer these sketches to the boards in the barn? What will I do with it all?

I sit down again on my stool and stare some more, my thoughts not really touching down. They jump around hazily. I look up once more at Damian, who is hunched over on his stool, one hand gripping the top of his easel, the other 114.

furiously slashing at his pad with the charcoal. What does he think about me? Does he think about me? I've been so caught up in learning about Nate, but Damian's talent is remarkable, too. It seems so unlikely, because, whereas I used to know Nate as a sweet kid, Damian has always seemed tougher, harder somehow. My thoughts aren't really making sense, and I'm not paying attention, when suddenly the bell rings.

Oh my gosh, I'm supposed to go to Damian's studio today. I begin to feel nervous again at the prospect of going back there with him. Then, the argument with my mother, the blow of my father's refusal to eat with us come racing back to me, and, with a burst of energy, I say good-bye to Helena and Ms. Calico and dash out of the art room with a nod of acknowledgment to Damian. "I'll meet you by your car," I murmur as I push past him.

I swing through the gloomy corridors, not noticing the other kids also pushing through the halls, racing to get out of school. When I reach my locker, I hastily spin the lock around, watching the numbers. Then, as it pops open, I grab my books and notebooks and jacket and slide the books I don't need onto the shelf, and slam the metal door shut.

"Hey, Cora!" Rachel's voice rings out through the fast-emptying hall.

I don't turn. I freeze.

Heavy footsteps pound the tile floor. I still don't move.

"Hey, Cora!" Rachel is out of breath, her cheeks puffing 115.

heavily. She jogs up to my locker and comes to an abrupt halt. She bends forward a bit, fighting to catch her breath. "Hey, what are you --" She stops talking as she notices the ferocity of my glare.

"Excuse me," I say coldly and push past her.

"Um, is something wrong?" Rachel asks. But her heart isn't in the sneer. She has a guilty look.

I spin around. "Why would something be wrong, Rach?" I say deridingly. "Oh, maybe because you ditched me at lunch today and then didn't even have the guts to look at Me? Or because you totally sold out and sat with the Nasties, who couldn't even be bothered to look at you, let alone talk to you? Because you left me out to dry? Hmm ... could it be any of that?"

"Huh. I don't know what you're talking about. I'm allowed to sit with other people, Cora," she scoffs. "G.o.d, don't be such a baby!"

"You know what, Rach, you don't have to worry about having a baby bothering you anymore. I'll get out of your way." I am seething, my voice has turned lethally quiet. I march down the hall, leaving Rachel behind to stare at my back. I hope her mouth is hanging open.

"Wait, Cor!" Rachel calls. "Please, wait!"

I stop but I don't turn to look at her.

"I'm sorry, Cora. Really. I am." Rachel says pleadingly. "I should have told you. It's just, Josh asked me if I was going to sit with them, and I didn't know what to say. And I wanted 116.

to sit with him. But..." I turn around and face her. Rachel's chin begins to quiver. "I'm sorry."

I sigh, and my anger fades. "It's fine. Just don't do it again. Okay?"

Rachel nods vigorously.

"Look, I've got to go," I tell her, and without another word, walk away.

When I get outside, I start to breathe again. I feel my hands and legs shaking madly. Tears spring to my eyes for the second -- or is it the third? -- time today, and the fall breeze blows the scent of fallen leaves and coming rain across my face. I wipe roughly at my eyes. What is wrong with me lately?