Part 10 (2/2)

97.

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.

98.

Chapter Six.

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.

99.

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 b.u.t.terflies, shoo them out of my system, and dial.

”h.e.l.lo?” His voice sounds scratchy.

100.

”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? Wont 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 b.u.t.ter 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 ma.s.sive 101.

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 gra.s.s in the summertime, the water rus.h.i.+ng down the slide, a gang of teenagers gathered around the diving board, little kids splas.h.i.+ng 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 102.

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 gra.s.s grows tall in this field -- it always has -- except where a baseball diamond has been cut into it. The stationary plastic bases are anch.o.r.ed 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 pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s. 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 103.

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