A Map Of The Known World Part 16

173.

Her enthusiasm floats over the booth like birdsong. She has always gotten what I've tried to tell her in the past. Maybe she really can help. There's only one thing to do. Leap.

"Okay, here goes. You know Damian and my brother, Nate, were best friends, right?" I wait for Helena to nod her a.s.sent, then continue, "Well, they were both artists, and they set up a studio in this barn across town and made all these sculptures and paintings. And, like I told you, they're amazing. Just amazing." Helena nods again. "So, I've been hanging out at Damian's studio working on a big map -- all of those little pieces I've been doing in art cla.s.s are studies, pieces of the larger map, actually. Anyway, I want, somehow, to show Damian's and Nate's art to everybody. I want everyone to know they're not total screw ups. That they have been doing something great all along." I stop and look at Helena, half expecting to see an expression of disgust or disbelief on her face. But I see neither. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

Helena sits back and folds her hands beneath her chin. She shakes her head then looks straight at me. "You're not crazy. You're brilliant. I know what we're going to do. We are going to have a gallery opening, a party!" She claps her hands excitedly and blows a lock of pale hair out of her eyes. "Oh my goodness, this will be incredible; we can ask Ms. Calico and get permission from the princ.i.p.al, Mrs. Brown, to include Nate's art in this year's art show, and his sculptures can be the centerpiece of the show! We'll make a big event out of it and advertise to 174.

the whole school. Then everyone will see!" Helena hops around in her seat, her zeal getting the better of her.

"Really? You really think we could do this?" I ask as a bubble of hope rises up in my chest.

"Of course! Why not? All you have to do is convince Damian to bring Nate's sculptures, and we'll have to get him to bring his own paintings -- they should be there, too. And, actually, you should be able to take Nate's stuff yourself, right?"

"Right.. ."

The catch. I have a feeling that convincing Damian may not be as easy as strawberry rhubarb pie.

I have no idea how to broach the subject with Damian. After school the next day, I go to the barn with him and stare at his back as he hovers in front of a canvas. He has stepped outside of his workshop and is now playing with a new set of oil paints.

It seems strange that Damian and I have been spending so much time together, yet no one else in our lives -- aside from Helena, now -- knows. I've never met his mother, and while I know Mrs. Archer works two jobs, I can't help but think that it is strange to spend so much time with Damian and not know this most basic piece of his life. It's strange to think about how I used to hate him, used to think he was a monster. So much has changed.

I crouch in front of the map and stare at it, letting the 175.

colors and textures blur before my eyes. The longer I stare, the more the piece seems to break apart and float lazily in layers, the dried-out stems of gra.s.s and wheat that I've glued down for the cornfield suspended on top of the flakes of the oil pastels of the ball field. These places meant something to me once. Meant so much. The anatomy of my childhood, a body marked by the games Nate and I played, by dizzying joy and sc.r.a.ped knees, by tears for lost toys and wild imaginings, by time shared and, now, time lost. Will I ever feel that happy again? That free or heedlessly anch.o.r.ed again?

I trace the painted white-blue swirls of the skating pond. Unbidden, the thought that it is probably cold enough to go skating now flits through my mind. I c.o.c.k my head and sit up.

I want to see the skating pond.

"Damian?" I call softly.

"Hmm," he answers, turning and wiping his hands on a spotted rag.

"Do you feel like going for a walk?" I ask.

"Sure, I could use a break," he responds easily. "Are you ready to go?"

I nod, then follow Damian as he bounds out the door. The sky has reached that hazy violet-and-blue shimmery brightness that comes midway between a winter's day and dusk.

"Thanks," I say breathlessly as we step out the front door into the chilly air. "Thanks for coming with me."

176.

"No problem," Damian returns, smiling. "Any particular direction?"

I start to head in the direction of the skating pond. We walk beside each other in amiable silence, our paces matched. I have to keep my hands in my pockets -- I forgot my gloves -- and I watch plumes of breath burst in front of me.

We are led through this world by our breath. There can be no going back. Breath fans out, little beads of life, dissipates, and vanishes. And there can be no going back.

Finally we reach the pond, and sure enough, there are skaters, mostly little kids with their parents, wobbling back and forth across the ice. Damian and I walk over to the snack stand and buy a couple of hot chocolates, then sit down on a bench to watch.

I begin to speak out loud, even though I am pretty sure I sound like a complete weirdo. "I've been thinking about what it means to be grown up.' You know, when you can look back and say, I'll never be a little kid again. I'll never again be a small child who is sure of my parents' love, of their protection, who knows that whatever mistakes I make, it doesn't really matter. It's not a big deal. Because the worst I can do is break a vase or track dirt onto the carpet. Or forget a book at school or maybe get a bad grade." I stop and look down at my hands. My fingers twist and knead and turn each other white. "Then, then, there's this place called home, and it's the safest s.p.a.ce in the world. But when we go off to college or whatever, eventually it won't 177.

be home anymore. So, when we're old enough to realize all of these things, we have to make the choice to either mourn the loss of that time, the innocence, the safety and ease of it all. Or we can feel excited to be free, relieved of the weight of this giant safety blanket, and released into the world to explore."

"Unless you already stopped feeling safe a long time before you grew up," Damian interrupts.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean ... my dad took off when I was a baby. I never knew why, but it shook my whole world to its core. As soon as I was old enough to realize he wasn't coming back, I figured out that I was never safe. If he -- my dad -- could do that, just walk out and not even look back, anyone could."

I open my mouth, to say what, I have no idea, but Damian cuts me off with a sharp look. "Anyway, I think I'm way past the point of being able to make mistakes without them mattering. I've screwed up everything." His brow is wrinkled, his eyes downcast, portentous and dark as a thundercloud.

"Damian," I start, very, very cautiously, "what if there was a way to fix it?" He looks up quickly, surprised. "I know you're not a screw up. What if you could show everyone who you really are? What you've been doing -- making?"

He c.o.c.ks a wary brow at me. "And how would I be able to do all that?"

"We-e-11, I've been talking with Helena Carson -- you know who she is, right? From art cla.s.s?" He nods. "So, we've been 178.

talking about, well, remember the school art show? We want to have, like, a gala opening or something. And I, um, I wanted to show Nate's art. And the map. And I think you should show your paintings."

"What? No. No way." Damian is shaking his head vigorously, gripping his hot cocoa with whitened knuckles. "No way," he repeats.

"Why? Why not?" I press. "What are you scared of? Remember at the coffee shop, you said you wished you weren't such a coward? This is your chance, Damian. Don't you see?

"I mean, I'm totally freaked most of the time. Some days I just live in this snail's sh.e.l.l of memories, wishing I could go back and be a little kid and have it all safe and easy, and other days I feel like I'll die if I don't get out of here, out of my freaking house. And believe me, losing Nate doesn't make the survival instinct in me feel very strong. I'm so scared I'll mess up.

"I've got this image in my head of how I want my life to look, and I have absolutely no idea how to get there. And I'm so scared that I'll make some wrong decision -- just one -- and everything will get messed up and go wrong -- for good. I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. But I have to think that doing this, showing Nate's and yours and my art can only help. I truly believe it will help you."

I don't know what else to say to him. We sit there and watch the little kids tottering around the pond on their skates.

179.

They're all bundled up in parkas and hoods and scarves and mittens, like snowmen mummies, so they can barely move their arms or turn their heads. Dads and Moms stagger after them, most of them not looking any more sure-footed than the twerps. And everyone is laughing.

They are all so happy. Perfectly happy.

I remember how my dad used to take Nate and me skating here when we were little. He had this really thick sweater of navy blue wool with white snowflakes knitted in lines across it and around his arms. That sweater always made me feel safe. It was the "Daddy and Rabbit weekend sweater." When he wore it, I knew that he was going to take me to the pond to skate or out into the woods to hike or that we were going to play Monopoly in front of the fireplace in our living room.

One day he brought Nate and me to the pond to skate, and he was wearing the sweater and these big woolly mittens with leather st.i.tched onto the palms. He knelt in the snow at the edge of the pond, clenched those mittens between his teeth, and tied my skates for me. He patted Nate on the top of his head and watched as Nate hurtled out into the middle of the pond. Then Dad held my hand and very gingerly, very carefully, lowered me onto the ice. "Ready, Rabbit?" he asked, his eyes crinkling with that warm smile he used to save for just the two of us. He held my hand as I skated, pretty much holding me up, since I was completely unsteady on my feet. When I toppled over, he grabbed me under the armpits and hoisted me 180.

up, all the way up into the air, so he could plant a kiss on my cheek, then he swung me back down onto the ice.

Nate skated in circles around us, sometimes moving so fast his legs blurred, and he came careening toward us, laughing wildly -- not with meanness, but with this crazy joy for the speed and crisp air and the knowledge that my dad would scoop him up before he could crash and swing him around and roar with a laughing mock anger.

This is home. An immense sadness, but a sweet one, fills me then. What a beautiful time it was. It's over, so over, now. But at least I can remember it. At least I had all that once. Maybe I can't hate it anymore.

I glance at Damian. He is sitting completely still.

We sip our cocoa in silence, when suddenly Damian looks at me. "Maybe you're right," he says. "Maybe you're right, so I'll do it."

I put my cup down. "Really?" I shout, and throw my arms around him.

Then I remember who, where, what, and everything, and am beyond embarra.s.sed.

"Sorry," I mutter. "But thank you. This is so great."

He chuckles softly and turns back to look at the skaters. He rests his chin on his hand on his knee, and shakes his head so slightly. Again, the s.p.a.ce between us yawns wider. I wish I knew what filled it.

181.

Chapter Twelve.

now that I know what I'm supposed to do, I can't seem to get myself to stay still long enough to work. Finishing this map is something I have to do, something I want to do. It's interesting how there's a sort of breakdown in communication between what I know I want and actually getting my hands to do the work. All these grand ideas, and then, poof, the brain gets lazy and easily distracted.

Tibet is shaped like a crocodile head. I move the cursor up and down on the screen, letting it crawl over the Tibetan Web page. The blinds are shading my windows, keeping out the late afternoon light.

Nate liked Death. Death was in the clothes that he wore and the music he listened to. He would wrap himself in a black sweater and ask Death to ride along with him in his Honda Civic.

And out on the county road, a half mile from the turn that is shaped like a bear's claw, where the bent oak tree stands, it 182.

seems Death leaped up from the backseat, grabbed the wheel, found the tree, and took my brother.

Tibetan children are kept busy fetching water, shepherding, and gathering yak dung.

Yak dung, huh? Well, my mom always used to say that busy hands are happy hands. Does that apply to hands picking up yak poof And if idleness supposedly breeds wickedness, then here is what I can't understand: Nate was busy. He had plenty of stuff to do. The evidence of that is under my bed, rolled into a poster tube, and tucked away in sketch pads. So, why was he so filled with bad thoughts, bad ideas -- like driving without headlights, like stealing and vandalizing and defacing:1 I will never know, will I? I'll just never understand why Nate did what he did, why he behaved the way he did. His death will stay meaningless and stupid and pointless and a waste. I'll never know.

Anyway, I have to get to work. The map really is nearly done. But the last piece still needs ... finding. I can't figure out what the last piece is, but there's a hole in the map that stares up at me like some walleyed fish searching for water. That hole needs filling. I flip through my sketches and try to figure out what part of the whole remains undefined, un evinced, un drawn I know why I can't concentrate. It's because of Damian. I like him. I do. And I mean like like him. I like the guy my parents think killed my brother. What would Freud have to say 183.

about that? I kick my legs up onto my desk and clasp my hands behind my head.

Damian has this tiny white scar on the fleshy triangle of his hand, between thumb and forefinger. The scar is shaped like a crescent; he got it burning himself with the soldering gun. And I can't stop picturing it in my head, thinking about taking his hand and touching that scar, caressing it. I can't figure out if Nate would hate this, hate me for liking his best friend. I'm fairly sure that none of this would be okay with him if he were alive. Then again, if Nate were still alive, Damian probably never would have noticed me anyway. But I wonder if, maybe, Nate left Damian behind as another piece of himself for me to find, so I could hold on to him. Even if Nate didn't think of me much when he was alive, I have to believe that wherever he is now, he does think of me, that he misses me. And that he knows how much I miss him. I miss him so much.

None of this stops me, however, from wondering what it would feel like if Damian liked me back. If he kissed me. His mouth is like a seash.e.l.l, a droplet of water, pink and round and perfect and smooth. A warm buzz fills my stomach when I imagine touching those lips.

Then, a crash from downstairs jolts me from my ruminations. Loud. I run to my door and out into the hallway, then crane my neck trying to peer over the banister and down the stairs. My father is crouched over a pile of-- stuff in the middle of the floor. The front room closet is open and a landslide 184.

of boxes continues to pour forth from it, spilling all around him. Seeing my father outside the depths of the freezer or his den is new. I'm just about to turn around and retreat to my room, when I notice his shoulders shudder and his pale, skinny neck hunch over his knees.

"Dad?" I whisper, tentative, nervous. There is no response. I creep down the stairs so softly, as if I were approaching a wild, frightened animal. In truth, I'm the one who's frightened. "Dad?" I try again.

I come up beside him and kneel down. An old cardboard box, weathered and torn, lies on its side, and all sorts of objects have leaked from inside it: a pair of navy mittens connected by a length of yarn, a tatty softball, a Hawks baseball cap, a dirty, beaten pair of cleats, and a pom-pom of blue and gold -- the Hawks colors -- streamers. I turn to my father, who still crouches with his head bowed and tucked into his arms. Then I see that a baseball glove has fallen to the floor in front of his feet. Nate's old mitt.

"Dad? Are you okay?" Now I'm getting worried. "What happened?"

He looks up as though surprised to see me there beside him and quickly wipes at his eyes and rubs a hand through his gray, thinning hair.

"Nothing," he replies in a deadened voice. "I'm fine, I just thought I'd get rid of some of these old things. Give them to Goodwill." He sinks back against the wall and slides 185.

fully to the floor, limp as a sack of corn. Then he looks at me, really sees me. It may be the first time since The Accident that he does so, and it feels like a knife is cutting deep into my ribs, through the tissue and bone and muscle that might protect my heart. My eyes fill with hot tears that I try to blink back.

"I found this," he says, picking up the glove. "And I just remembered him standing out there in his uniform, playing, and ... oh ..." His voice breaks and his eyes are glossy. He presses his forefingers to the corners of his eyes, as though trying to dam the tears. "He was such a good boy." A low sound, almost a growl -- but not -- a sob, snarls in his chest and rises up into his mouth and escapes, dropping into the s.p.a.ce between us and hanging there.

"I know," I say; then I sit down beside him and reach for his hand, "I know he was."

My father lets me hold his hand. He doesn't squeeze mine back, but he lets me sit there with him and put my head on his shoulder, and he sees me. He sees me for the first time in such a long, long time. We sit there and cry together.

I know it's not a breakthrough or a new beginning or the end of the bad period -- the freeze-out -- but it's something. I curl my fingers around his, feeling the putty-like flesh, warm and soft, against my own. Like the warmest, safest blanket.

Dad's head snaps up as footsteps near. He presses my hand so gently he might not have done it at all, then rises and begins 186.

to scoop all of Nate's old things back into the box. My mother appears in the doorway.

"What are you doing?" Her voice comes out in a strangely strangled clanking.

Almost without thinking, I stand and begin to back up to the stairs. My father doesn't look at her, nor does he answer her as he continues sweeping the clutter back into its container.

"Daniel, what are you doing?" My mother's voice rises, taking on that tinny quality it gets when she is about to explode. I can almost smell the cordite. "What are you doing?" Her face grows red and her fists are clenched at her waist. "Put the box back in the closet, Daniel."

My father has finished depositing everything back into the box and now has it tucked in the crook of his arm. Then quietly, he says, "Marie, it's time. It's time to let him go."

"Shut up, Daniel, and put the box down. Right now!" She's really yelling now and tears are streaming down all three of our faces, but it's as though I'm not even in the room. She runs over to him and tries to pry the box away from my dad, and suddenly they are in a tug-of-war match, each grasping a flap of battered cardboard, yanking and heaving and my mother's chest is heaving with sobs, and they glare at each other. Glare as though they hate each other, hate and hate and they pull and glare and pull until the box splits apart with a meek exhalation, ffrrip. All of Nate's things arc through the air like a waterfall and fall to the floor in a clatter.

187.

My father stands mutely, gaping; he stares around at all of the things, while my mother swoops down and grabs as much as she can hold in her arms, cradling the baseball mitt like a baby, and runs out the door. I hear the door to her sewing room bang shut. Then silence. My father raises his eyes to mine briefly then turns and shuffles past me up the stairs. His face, his skeleton -- it all seems to have collapsed in on itself, and he looks as fragile as a b.u.t.terfly. The den door squeaks open and closes with a click.

I shake my head, and follow in my father's wake up the steps and slide past the den into my own bedroom. Then, carefully, I put my shoulder to the door and nudge it shut. I lie down on my bed and cry until I think I'll throw up. This was the worst thing I have seen since the night he died.

When I'm cried out, I walk to the bathroom, my eyes and nose and whole body dried out, empty, wasted, like some bug exoskeleton wasting away on a windowsill. After I wash my face, I remain in front of the mirror above the sink. I stare at my reflection, I don't blink. Brown eyes, dull and brown, look back at me. Dark brown hair hanging in heavy waves. My face is pale and my eyes are bloodshot. I can't detect much of a difference between this fourteen-year-old self and the thirteen-year-old one. Same flat chest, skinny arms, collarbone that sticks out sharply, all the way to my shoulders. What a watery picture I make. Enough I have to be stern with myself. Enough with this. I grab my cell phone and start to dial Rachel's 188.

number. Quickly, I snap the phone shut. What am I thinking? I shake my head clear, then call Helena.

"Hey, are you busy?" I ask.

"Nope. How about you?" she replies.

"Want to go to the mall?" Maybe chain stores and the lure of shiny objects will erase the whole horrible scene I just witnessed.

"Why not?" Helena says good-naturedly. "Meet me at the entrance in twenty?"

"Sounds like a plan," I tell her, silently thanking whatever power made her free.