A Map Of The Known World Part 15

It's strange to think about, makes a strange pressure in my chest that feels like it's pus.h.i.+ng all the air from my lungs.

When I get back to school on Monday, Helena asks me how my holiday was. I try very hard to keep my face normal, to keep it from crumpling, and myself from collapsing into tears. "It was fine," I tell her.

She and I are sitting at a lunch table with Cam and a few of his friends. Cam is serious and quiet, seemingly the opposite of Helena's effervescence.

Shyly, I ask him how his holiday was, eager to steer the conversation away from me. "It was nice," he replies. "My sister and her husband just had a baby, so everyone was focused on them. Which was fine with me," he adds with a mischievous smile. "The less attention my parents pay me, the better."

"Really?" I ask. Sounds a little bit like how Nate used to talk. Is that a boy thing?

"Yeah, well, with my sister out of the house, all their attention is saved up for me. Every little move I make is fodder for their microscopes."

"I know what you mean," Helena says. "Sometimes, when my parents fight, I'm just relieved they aren't thinking about me."

I sit back, glad to have removed myself from the focus of the conversation, and refreshed by the normalcy of this lunch. Still, I can't help but glance around the cafeteria, until I find Rachel 159.

in her now usual spot beside Elizabeth Tillson at the Nasties' table.

"I wonder why parents get like this -- so focused, so worried all the time?" Cam wonders aloud, breaking into my thoughts.

"I guess it's because they don't feel like they can keep us safe anymore," I answer, taken aback by my directness.

Helena stares at me closely. "Yeah, I think you're right," she murmurs.

After lunch, she grabs my elbow and asks, "Was that okay? What we were talking about, I mean? I didn't even think --"

"Everything is fine," I rea.s.sure her. "It was really nice to sit with you guys. Cam is a good guy."

Helena nods, her eyes glittering. "He is, isn't he?" she says happily.

Winter break. Sixteen whole days stuck in the house with my parents, and no escape. Damian and his mom are traveling to Missouri to visit his cousins; Helena and her family are going to Indiana to visit her grandparents. And, Rachel... well, Rachel and I still aren't speaking. It's the longest fight we've ever had.

Thanksgiving was bad enough, and that was only four days. But now I have more than two weeks of isolation. The snow comes down hard outside, the white flakes dancing on the 160.

wind before driving into the ground with an aimless fury, coloring the whole world a dull gray. It's numbing. Too cold to ride my bike, I'm stuck inside, and there's no Christmas tree, no decorations, no hint of holiday cheer. It's the first year we haven't had a Christmas tree or lights strung up along the gables of our upstairs windows. There's a gloomy absence, like a big black hole, swallowing up this house.

On Christmas day, the snow abates for a bit. So, I pull on my puffy ski pants and strap on my clumsy snow boots, and clomp my way over to the Wyatt cornfields. Last time I came by here was in the fall, when everything was tinged a warm golden yellow. In the snow, though, the dried out stalks are bent, leaning wearily like broken old men. In other places, the husks stick up from the snow, like the remnants of a deserted, destroyed city. I set off, trudging between the rows, letting my mittens brush against the dead leaves that rattle at my touch.

When I reach the end of one row, I continue straight on, away from the barn and the farm and the road. I walk until I come to a pile of hay bales and plop myself down. The sun is bright and the air is sharp. In the distance I hear the lowing of cows. It's so peaceful here.

"Merry Christmas," I whisper to myself. "Merry Christmas, Nate."

I think he would have liked sitting here with me in the crisp silence. You can think here. The shutters of this tiny town seem wide open in this field.

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When we were little, Nate and I would wake up at dawn on Christmas morning, run downstairs, and peer at the array of presents that had been placed beneath the tree during the night. We'd sit on the living room floor, shake each one of the boxes with our names printed on them, and make lists of what we hoped our presents would be. Nate, his brow wrinkled, would really think about it, then cross his fingers and squeeze his eyes shut like he was praying. When he was nine, Nate asked my mom if every child got Christmas presents. My mother had responded truthfully, saying, "No, not every child celebrates Christmas, and even some of the ones who do aren't as fortunate as we are." Nate had been very distressed by this revelation. He asked if he could give one of his presents to a child who wouldn't get a gift. My mother had chuckled, but she'd looked proud. "That is very generous," she'd told him. "How about you keep all of your presents, and we can go to the store and pick out something to send to a charity?" Nate liked that idea. And the wrinkles in his forehead had smoothed out.

Last Christmas was a different story, though. Nate didn't wake up early and examine the gifts with me. He didn't wake up until afternoon, by which time my parents and I had already exchanged presents without him. His gifts were left under the tree. The three of us were in the kitchen, drinking fresh orange juice, while my dad made waffles. We were laughing and trying our best to ignore the fact that Nate had decided to skip Christmas that year, when he wandered in, groggy and grumpy.

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"Nice of you to join us," I'd smirked.

"Whatever, dork," he'd mumbled.

"Nathaniel, you come with me," my father had said menacingly. I could overhear him, when he took Nate into the living room. "You are hurting all of us, especially your mother with this behavior."

"What behavior?" Nate had asked sarcastically.

"You know very well what I'm talking about, and I'm tired of it." My dad's voice was low and harsh.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Nate replied. "I was tired; I overslept."

"Nate, you'd better think about whether you want to be a part of this family. And you'd better think about how your behavior is making everyone else feel. I will not stand for it, and I won't see you hurting your mother this way." Then Dad stalked back into the kitchen. Nate followed sulkily, sat at the table, and ate waffles with us. He didn't join in the laughter, but the atmosphere in the kitchen had changed, and the laughter felt forced anyway. Our last Christmas together. What a sorry memory.

When my fingers and my nose are frozen and I can't feel my toes anymore, I rise from the hay and slowly make my way back toward the farmhouse. The sun is high in the robin's egg sky. I can't wait for spring, I think wistfully. For the return of flowers and leaves and birds. I miss hearing the call of cardinals 163.

and the humming of jays. I miss Nate. Oh lord, how I miss him. Too cold to cry, the force of my loneliness carves out a hollow s.p.a.ce in my belly, like a worm gnawing its way through my gut, I can't go home yet. I walk back through the fields and head east toward the creek. When I come to the willow tree, I slide down into a pillow of snow at its base. I long for the white bird to come back, to fill my emptiness again with the same sense of magic and hope. Because I have to get that feeling of purpose back. I look into the creek; the surface is frozen, but I can see the hint of life beneath it. From where I sit, it almost looks like a painting, muddy browns and whites sliding into each other, from bank to creek bed.

That's it, I tell myself. It's about the art. I have to remember that.

The crooked angles of dead branches and the humpbacks of rocks lining the creek remind me of the towering mounds of metal in the Wright barn. Nate's art. I still have that piece of him. Maybe he isn't wholly lost to me. Maybe I can touch him, hold on to him through his art, and through my map.

Once again, I start off, trudging toward my house. I can do this; I just have to focus on the art.

As I creep back into the house, I see that the light underneath the door to my dad's den is still on, but I can't hear the 164.

television. Instead, I hear a low keening sound. I move closer to the door, and press my ear to it. A shuddering moan. My father is crying.

I leap back as though I've been stung. What is he doing? He's turned to ice. He doesn't cry. He can't cry. The sounds are guttural, almost animal-like. There is so much sadness in that room. It's overwhelming, and I think I could drown in it.

I wander back to my bedroom. My mother has left a tray containing a TV turkey dinner with the plastic cover still on it, and a feeble Christmas present for me on my bed. Crumpled blue wrapping paper, no box, no ribbon. I tear off the paper, and uncover a sweater, green with little white flowers. I will never wear it, because it will always remind me of this awful Christmas day. I crumple it into a ball and throw it into the back of my closet. This day has been too potent, too heavy with grief, and I feel it heaping all around me, over me. If the dullness of the walls of my room stifled me before, now it seems that the weight of so much sorrow might, instead.

At least I have a project to keep me occupied. It's time to get to work, time to make something of this map.

Tonight is New Year's Eve. For the past week, I've been working feverishly on the map, sketching and re-sketching the scenes I want to include on the boards in the barn, figuring out 165.

how to piece it all together. But now I am going to take a break and watch the countdown to midnight on television.

As I watch the carousers taking part in the festivities in Times Square, a hunger starts to grow in my belly. And I'm plenty full from dinner. I watch couples standing hand in hand, kissing and hugging as they count down the seconds to the New Year.

I want that. I want someone to hold me, to kiss me, to ring in the New Year with me. I close my eyes and imagine what an arm around my waist would feel like, its heavy weight, a comforting warmth. What a pair of lips brus.h.i.+ng over mine would feel like. What if that arm and those lips belonged to someone -- someone I know? What if they belonged to Damian?

Keeping my eyes closed, I try to picture myself kissing Damian. My ears are burning, and I'm all alone. This is ridiculous. But my heart is racing a little bit, and I can't completely ignore the tingling in my shoulders.

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Chapter Eleven.

dream of walking alongside the creek, the trees and rocks, gra.s.ses and water lit by the moon with an icy silvery light. It is like walking through a ghost story. All is silent. Then suddenly, the white bird is standing before me, poised on its slender legs. Its neck is curved and sleek, s.h.i.+ning feathers tucked tightly against its graceful body. The bird peers at me with an orange eye, head c.o.c.ked to the side. A sense of wonder, electrifying, charges through my body. The ground seems to tremble and roll beneath my feet, yet the bird remains perfectly still, watching me. I struggle to keep my footing, and when I begin to fall, the bird suddenly stretches out its wings and soars into the air. It circles around me, its wings V-shaped and stark against the starry night sky. My breath runs away from me in a rush, I can't catch it, and I fall to my knees, then I'm falling and falling....

I wake abruptly, my heart throbbing. The bird. Its unwavering gaze stays with me. If a bird could have an expression, this one seemed ... expectant. Like it was telling me I had work to do. Yes, this bird that looked like the swash of a paintbrush 167.

seems ever to be propelling me toward my art, toward Nate's art. It was the bird that made me realize how dearly art matters, that gave me this connection to Nate. Maybe, if I could show the world Nate's sculptures, if I could convince Damian to show his paintings, maybe everyone could see this better side of both of them, and Nate could be remembered as more than a screw up, and Damian could have a second chance. He could go to art school.

7:52. Oh my gosh. My first day back, and I'm late. My neck and back are coated in sweat, my hair is plastered to my cheeks. I was dreaming so hard I slept right through my alarm clock. This morning, the notion of school doesn't feel as unappealing as it usually does. I'm looking forward to art cla.s.s, to talking to Helena about the kernel of an idea I had during the night. Mostly, though, I'm excited to see Damian again. Just the thought of him makes my stomach feel fluttery and light.

Quickly, I dress and run downstairs. My parents have already left for work, I putter around the kitchen, looking for something quick to eat, when I spot my dad's crystal tumbler in the sink. The sound of his weeping still rings in my ears. Suddenly, I am gripped by an urge to see his den. I grab a strawberry Pop-Tart and race back up the stairs. The door to the den is open slightly. It creaks and groans as I push it open farther. The room is painted brick red and six long bookshelves line each of the walls. A large, worn, brown leather armchair 168.

takes primacy over the den like a throne, overshadowing the ornately carved antique wooden desk and a rattily upholstered couch that bears the scars of a long-dead cat's claws. The armchair faces a flat-screen television and a small wooden stool crouches beside it. As I approach the armchair, which still bears the impressions of my father's body, I notice something s.h.i.+ny underneath the stool. I kneel to see what it is. A facedown silver picture frame. I draw it out and pick it up. It's a photograph of my dad and Nate that was taken during a vacation to Disney World when I was seven and Nate was eleven. They're smiling, and Nate's head is thrown back, like he'd been laughing. He holds a stuffed Dumbo in one hand and a puff of cotton candy in the other, and his tongue is bright blue. They both look so young, so happy.

There is a hairline crack in the protective gla.s.s, but other than that, the photo and its frame are unblemished. I run my thumb along the crack. It stretches down the middle of the picture, severing Nate from my dad's arms. Does my father trace his fingers over this same crack while he cries? His sorrow lingers in the air, pressing on it, on me, heavily.

I replace the frame, and back out of the room. It's impossible for me to think of my dad with anything but resentment now. There isn't room for pity or for empathy anymore. Not since he left Mom and me to go on without him.

I hoist my backpack onto my shoulder, go out to the garage 169.

and mount my bike. Pumping my legs hard and fast, I pedal away. Enough.

The school day pa.s.ses and I feel like I've been walking through a cloud. Sounds seem m.u.f.fled, I barely notice the other kids shuffling past me in the hallways, the teachers rambling in cla.s.s. I don't pay any attention to the fact that Rachel is still ignoring me, doesn't look my way once. It's like I'm not there. Without Helena around, I take my lunch to the library and eat alone.

At the end of the day, as I step out of the art room, I hear someone calling my name. Slowly, I turn to see Helena standing in the doorway of the studio, waving frantically at me.

"Hey, wait up for a second!" Helena calls.

I pause, still feeling slow, fuzzy. I wait for Helena to jog over to catch up with me.

"Hey, how are you? How were your holidays?" Helena starts, then coughs as she fights to catch her breath. "Are you all right? You seemed kind of out of it in art today."

I stare at her curiously, hearing the words but not quite understanding them. "I'm -- what?" Helena's eyes widen as if to say, See, this is exactly what I'm talking about "Oh, I'm fine. Just a little ... tired," I tell her, trying to snap out of this strange soupy funk. "You know, the holidays were ... weird. How about you?"

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"Are you sure you're okay? You still seem kind of s.p.a.cey," Helena asks.

"Yeah, I'm sure. I'm okay. Just.,. I'm tired.... It was a rough couple of weeks," I try to explain.

"Did something happen? Hey -- I know -- want to go to the diner? We can share some pie and you can tell me all about it?"

I am thoroughly alert now. I think about what my mom would have to say about this idea, and that decides it for me. "You know what, I'd love that. Let me just tell someone...." We've been walking through the school, and have reached the door to the student parking lot. This morning I was so fixated on seeing Damian again, but then, after entering my father's den, I couldn't even look at him in cla.s.s. Now, the notion of Helena's company feels safe, soothing. I've needed a friend.

I should let Damian know I won't be coming to the barn today, though, and I crane my neck to look for him. Then I spot the familiar black-cloaked back striding toward the blue El Camino. "Will you wait for me here a sec?" I ask Helena.

As she nods, I begin to sprint toward Damian's car. "Hey, Damian!" I holler, not paying any attention to the many heads that turn in my direction across the parking lot.

Damian hears and turns, too. "Hi," I say as I catch up to him.

"Hi," he replies easily. "Did you have a good holiday?"

"Yeah," I say, my pulse leaping. "You?"

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"It was nice," he says, smiling. "Hey, happy New Year."

"Happy New Year," I tell him, remembering how I'd thought about him on New Year's Eve, and feeling my cheeks grow warm. Thank goodness he can't read my mind. "So, I just wanted to let you know, I'm not going to come over to work today."

"Oh, okay," Damian says slowly. "Is anything wrong?"

I catch a glint of worry in his eyes. "No, no, nothing at all. I'm just going to go to the diner with Helena. She, uh, wanted to talk to me about something."

"All right," he says reluctantly.

"But can I come over tomorrow?" I ask, worried that he might be angry, might not want me to come over anymore.

"Sure, no problem." His voice, dull.

"Hey, you're not upset with me, are you?"

"No. It's just that -- you're not not coming because you're avoiding me or anything, are you?"

"Of course not," I make my voice sound light. "No, I just need to take a day and think about the map and what I want to do with it and everything." He's worried I was upset with him?

"Okay. Then I'll see you tomorrow." Damian looks relieved, but with his brow wrinkled, I can tell he isn't fully convinced.

"Cool, thanks." I put my hand on his arm and squeeze gently before turning back to Helena.

As I come back over to Helenas side, she says, "You know, I 172.

saw Calico had a canvas of his stretched out on her desk today. He's really good. Like, an amazing painter." She c.o.c.ks her head and looks at me intently.

"I know," I tell her, "He does these incredible paintings where he sticks objects -- you know, like washers and screws and bits of metal -- right into the paint. They're unbelievable."

"Really!'" Helena asks as we -- I'm wheeling my bike along beside me -- stroll out of the parking lot and head toward Union Street. "I wonder why he doesn't tell anybody, or show anyone."

"I know. I tried to tell him that he should. He's being stubborn."

We approach the diner, which, with its s.h.i.+ny aluminum exterior and big windows covered in paper snowflakes, looks like something from the 1950s. We settle into one of the booths, and I recall how, just a few weeks ago, sitting across from Damian, I'd felt so sad, helpless, and sorry. But now I feel hopeful, buoyed by some sense of promise. Maybe I can do something, something good and meaningful. After we order hot chocolates and a slice of strawberry rhubarb pie, I begin to tell Helena everything.

"Actually, I was wondering if you could help me. I..." My voice trails off as I try to figure out how to form the right words, how to explain what I want to do, how to tell her about Nate.

"Help you with what?" Helena asks eagerly. Her eyes s.h.i.+ne with a brilliant curiosity.