Mapmaker Read online

  I nodded with a half smile. Business first. That was his way. “Connor, I want you to show Tanya the data input she’ll be doing. I have a lunch meeting in Boston.” He glanced quickly at the stainless-steel chain-link watch hanging from his wrist.

  “Sure, Dad,” Connor said, his voice equally abrupt.

  “How’s Beth doing?” he asked.

  At first I wasn’t sure if Harrison was talking to me. He texted a message on his phone, then slipped it into his suit pocket.

  “She’s okay,” I said. “She got the roof fixed finally so it’s not leaking. She’s thinking about going back to work …” What I really wanted to ask was, How could MapOut afford this huge renovation? How much was the Rytech acquisition worth?

  Harrison’s eyes locked with mine. I could tell right away that the settlement was a subject he wanted to avoid. I flashed again to last winter and Beth’s eager acceptance. I knew Harrison was only trying to protect us, but I was sure that giving up wasn’t what Dad would have wanted. He never had intentions of cashing out his stock. But I had no legal rights and could not convince Beth, who was now my sole guardian.

  “So, Connor, you’re Tanya’s boss today,” Harrison finished with a paternal wink. He buttoned his suit coat and grabbed his briefcase.

  The pale receptionist appeared, handing him a note on MapOut letterhead: a name and phone number. A smile crept across my lips. They’d changed the font but kept the slogan my dad and I had come up with one night hanging out in the shed. MapOut: Put Yourself on the Map.

  Connor walked me to the last empty cubicle. “You’re going to need coffee,” he said impishly.

  “I will?” I asked, surveying the empty desk and blank screen.

  “Trust me. People like you and me get stuck with data entry.” He was already walking away, waving me down a narrow corridor. I sighed and followed. “Do you know about FYF? The new app they’re working on here?”

  “Find Your Friends, right? My dad mentioned something about it.” I closed my mouth before I could add: before he died. I really needed to shut off that part of my brain, the part that triggered a painful memory every single time his name came up. But I could picture the excited smile on his face as he told me about its implications—about how it would take location-based technology to a whole new level. “Nobody will ever have to be afraid of getting lost in a strange crowd or a new city,” he’d said more than once. “We’re so close to being safe no matter where we are. Isn’t that something?”

  “Yeah, my dad is riding everyone extra hard so he can roll it out by Christmas,” Connor said in the silence.

  “Is that what I’m going to be working on?” I asked.

  He sighed. “I wish. Like I said, right now we’re only assigned to data entry. But you never know, maybe someday.”

  Unlike my cubicle, the kitchen was bright and airy. A cappuccino maker and French press filled with newly made coffee sat on the counter. Fair trade, Organic Dark Roast Sumatra Rao’s Coffee beans stored in airtight jars.

  “Caffeine is sacred here, huh?” I asked.

  “You’ll understand why soon enough.” Connor poured me a cup.

  I added half-and-half and stirred until it was a rich caramel color. A few scruffy programmer types shuffled in and out. He made a point to introduce me: “This is Tanya, Michael’s daughter.” Everyone was friendly—preoccupied, but friendly. I didn’t remember a single name. Still, for the first time since I’d agreed to work here, I thought my summer might turn out okay. At least I’d forgotten being hurt by my former childhood friend.

  Connor wasn’t kidding. My job was to type very boring information into a database. But then, I already knew that MapOut’s primary mission was boring: to create an application that was both a shoppers’ map and a business owners’ tool.

  The first folder I picked up was for a neighborhood in South Carolina called District 8. I was meant to input a breakdown of flower shop data. For instance: Florence’s Flowers on Chestnut Drive charged $22.00 for a dozen roses. If you drove five miles south out of town, The Yellow Daffodil charged only $21.50.

  The data MapOut gathered was constantly changing, with new information being updated. So if you, the customer, went to Florence’s Flowers and you were dissatisfied, you could search the MapOut app with a command like: “Locate flower shop within five miles that sells a dozen roses for under $22.” Of course, the ultimate goal, the one that consumed all the young programmers, was to cut out typing altogether. At the end of the summer the new-and-improved version was due to be released: you would just hit the MapOut button, hovering somewhere on your screen over the Florence’s Flowers page, and all the information you’d need about a better place to buy flowers would appear.

  After ten minutes, I could no longer concentrate.

  I kept trying to figure out exactly where I was in the building—the way I remembered it—but everything was blocked off. Makeshift drywalls blocked hallways; heavy sheets of dark plastic covered exits and entrances; doors were sealed shut.

  Connor must have been spying on me, because he pulled up a chair. He began pestering me about how the work was going, if I was finding the system difficult to navigate. I shooed him away, not even realizing how rude I was being. I felt bad, but I couldn’t explain to him how I was feeling, the overwhelming necessity to locate myself in a place that had once been so familiar. I needed to figure out where I was. Like the arrow on a map that says, YOU ARE HERE. Here is something I always have to know.

  And there was something else that had been needling at me since I’d arrived: my dad’s office. There was a chance it might have already been gutted in the renovation. If it hadn’t, though, his desktop computer might still be inside.

  For some reason, Harrison couldn’t give us Dad’s computer. Beth had asked for it, mostly because it was handy to have another computer in the house. But apparently Harrison’s hands were tied. His lawyers couldn’t allow it. Dad’s computer was officially company property and contained company information and data. If we took possession of it, we’d set a “dangerous precedent.”

  Beth had agreed, of course. And Harrison was probably right about corporate data. Once, he’d even been forced to come to the house—I’d never seen him look less suave and confident—apologizing over and over and asking if either Beth or I knew a password Dad might have used for business emails. Beth, always eager to please, took a small brown notebook from Dad’s desk drawer and handed it over to Harrison. I don’t think Dad would have minded, but still, it felt like a violation. Dad was a cofounder of the company; didn’t that mean we could inherit the computer? Besides, his notebook certainly didn’t qualify as MapOut property.

  I sat in the cubicle for a few more minutes, sipping my coffee, staring blankly at the monitor: a pale grey blur of symbols and codes. The college student at the cubicle beside me was singing along softly to the music playing in his headphones. Steeling my nerves, I pushed my chair out behind me, quietly. I would use my usual excuse: Oh, I was just looking for the bathroom. Or if that was too obvious I would just pretend I was on my way back to the kitchen to refill my coffee.

  I picked up the nearly empty coffee cup. I put my earphones in to discourage people from talking to me. From where I stood, I could see north down the hall to what I knew was once the stairwell. The banister and doorway were smothered in heavy plastic and blocked with piles of construction sheetrock, making access beyond that point impossible. So: another route. Heading to the back of the building, I lingered by the side of the freight elevator and stared down at my phone, pretending to be distracted just in case one of workmen asked me what I was doing. I acted as if I belonged here, as if I were caught up in important texts—oblivious to where I was and who was around me.

  “It’s so easy to play stupid and snoop nowadays. People have lost that instinct for exploration. The only thing they seem to be interested in exploring are their smartphones. That’s something we mapmakers can use to our advantage.”

  Dad’s words rang
as clearly as if he’d spoken out loud.

  When I was a kid, out exploring with him—mapping the trails Native Americans used centuries ago—he’d encourage me to snoop. Originally the land was everyone’s to travel and explore; now the trees were posted with PRIVATE PROPERTY and NO TRESPASSING signs. Needless to say, Dad didn’t respect those boundaries, especially if it interfered with cartography. The trails were mostly overgrown, blending into the woods as though they had never been there. When we came across a grumpy landowner (sometimes with a deer-hunting rifle), we’d just pretended to be lost. Bird-watching, blueberry-picking, following a fox trail: these were all excuses I learned to use.

  The elevator opened and I stepped inside, pulling the heavy doors closed. There were no buttons to press, only a lever. I turned it the only possible way—to the left—and felt the slow rise of the cables pulling upward. It was dark; only single strand of light shone through the seam.

  The elevator slammed into the ceiling. The back of my head hit the wall. Shit.

  Slowly, steadily, I lowered the lever an inch at a time, gauging from the seam of light when I’d linked to the fourth floor. Then I pulled open the doors and stepped into a broad, empty space. My eyes zeroed in on the emergency staircase: access to the blocked-off area of the third floor. The next thing I knew, I was jogging down the steps.

  This was the old MapOut.

  The original sign still hung over the entrance to the shabby suite of rooms. The first thing I recognized was the smell of old wood and clay from the pottery studio that used to be next door. But that studio had long been dismantled to make more room for MapOut. An unpleasant thought flitted through my mind: Had Harrison been lying when he’d told Beth and me the company was in jeopardy? Had he already known about Rytech and the obvious millions they were willing to supply?

  It was best not to go there. He’d always looked out for me, and he still did. I pulled my earphones out. I hurried toward my father’s office.

  The floors in the old section were worn and uneven in places. The cubicles were silent, relics from another era compared to the new, glossy white ones downstairs. The printer was covered with dust. There was a pile of printing paper on the desk; pens; paper clips. My throat tightened. The last time I had been here, Dad was alive. I would walk here after school and do my homework while he finished work.

  The poster of the Piri Reis map was still tacked into the door.

  I reached for the handle and tried to turn it, but it was locked. The map blurred in front of me. I had sworn to myself I wouldn’t cry about this anymore. I didn’t hear the approaching footsteps. I didn’t hear anything at all. I was just trying to stop the tears. I squeezed my eyes shut so tightly that I saw red—until a voice cut through.

  “Tanya?” Connor was jogging down the dusty hallway. “What are you doing here? No one’s supposed to be in this area. It’s not safe.”

  My face flushed. I turned my back to him, trying to wipe my cheeks as quickly as possible. My mind was racing, but I knew no excuse would work.

  “I just wanted to see my dad’s office,” I confessed.

  Maybe he didn’t hear. I barely heard my own voice. I shut my eyes again and leaned against the wall feeling weak, and hating myself for that weakness. I slid down to the floor. Everything was quiet for a moment. Maybe he had taken the hint and gone. Then I heard his voice again, closer this time. I opened my eyes. He was staring at the Piri Reis map with a faraway look.

  “I should have figured you’d come up here. I … I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you’ve been through a lot.”

  Thanks. You can leave now.

  But he didn’t. He sat down beside me on the floor. Neither of us spoke. I could hear him breathing. And I knew he could hear me crying, even as I tried to hold back.

  “You know, there was something I wanted to tell you, something I actually thought about writing to you before this summer,” he said. “But then, I don’t know. It didn’t seem like the right time. There is no right time. It’s just … your dad was a big inspiration for me. He said something to me that always stuck. ‘No matter where I end up, I’m always right where I want to be, because it’s new.’”

  I kept silent. If Connor had intended to torture me, he was doing an excellent job. This was my punishment for wandering away from my cubicle. A tear splattered on the dusty floor between us. He pretended not to notice.

  “Anyway, that was the reason I got involved in Habitat for Humanity,” Connor added. “It was right after he died. Maybe it was even … I don’t know. But when I signed up, I pictured him with his backpack. I loved how he would just trek off and do his own thing. I loved how you could tell that he hated everything my dad loves, all the apps and technology and bullshit schmoozing. All he cared about was experience.”

  I sniffed and shook my head. “I know, Connor,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “In the end that’s what killed him. He should have been more like your dad, sitting behind a desk.”

  He let out a grim laugh. “Who wants to do that?”

  For a while we were silent again.

  “Hey, you know what?” he said. “I’m serious. It’s summer break. I don’t want to spend it typing in the price of Nike Airs in Westville, Ohio, do you?”

  I frowned at him. The silly smile on his face made me laugh and cry again at the same time.

  “My dad’s heading to Boston. He might have already split. I really doubt anyone’s going to notice if we take a lunch break now. Come on.” He stood and nudged me lightly with his foot. “I’m sure if you eat something and get an iced tea—my treat. I mean … look. I know nothing I do or say will make you actually feel better about your dad. It is what it is. It sucks. But distractions can help.”

  I blinked up at him. He had said something so true. He probably didn’t realize it, but he was the first person in my life to actually say it out loud: Nothing would make me better. And the relief of someone giving me the hard truth, as painful as it might be, was so much more refreshing than hearing the same old time-heals-all-wounds bullshit.

  “You know, you’re the first person who has said something real about what happened to my dad,” I said.

  Our eyes met before he looked away, as though he were embarrassed about what he might add.

  “I … Sorry about that,” he stuttered. I could tell he was straining for the right words. “Sometimes stuff pops out of my mouth. When my parents split, Mom pretty much left me, too. Did you know that? She only visited me four times at Exeter, same time every year: Parent Weekend. I kept trying to do things to get her attention like get good grades or play on varsity, even in ninth grade.” His voice caught in his throat.

  Of course I had known about the divorce, that his mother had moved to New York City with her boyfriend and his daughters. But I had no idea she’d abandoned him.

  After he left for Exeter (of course, only the best for Connor), I’d assumed he thought he was better than everyone. Every report that came back was confirmation: straight A’s, amazing athlete, handsome. There was even a rumor going around that he was dating some heiress. He seemed nonhuman, a machine. And in a way he was: a machine devoted to getting his own mother to notice him.

  I hesitated, but I couldn’t help ask, “Did she even come to your graduation?”

  “Yeah. So, five times, I guess. But that was awkward because Dad was there, too. I haven’t seen her since, and she’s never visited me at college. She was supposed to visit but something came up, something about her new boyfriend … whatever. I’m used to her excuses now. I never expect anything anymore.” He turned abruptly. “Come on. Look how sunny and bright it is outside. Let’s go. I’m taking you out to lunch.”

  I looked up at him wearily. “Easy for you to say, you’re the boss’s son.”

  “Exactly,” he said with a smirk. “I can do whatever I want.”

  “Connor …” I had to laugh. “Listen, this is a shit situation for me, but I do need this job right now. We have to walk right past the receptionist
to get out.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, but we’re not going out the front door.”

  The back fire escape shook as I stepped out onto the window ledge.

  I looked down four flights of rusted iron ladders and grates to the ground below, imagining my body tumbling through the air.

  “It’s fine,” Connor said. He held out his hand. “I’ll go first to prove it.”

  I gripped the railing with both hands. Maybe all fire escapes wobbled? Holding my breath, I took his hand in mine. A vivid memory overcame me: doing the exact same thing when we were seven years old, behind my house. My mom had still been alive. He’d stepped onto a log in the river and reached out for me to join him …

  It must have only been three or four seconds, but when he let go and turned back to the railing, it was as though I had lost something—I’d been shown a keepsake only to have it snatched away. But that wasn’t his fault. I made my way down the steep and narrow steps, following his lead. At the bottom landing, he jumped on the ladder, which slid to the ground with a thud. I climbed down after him, stepping onto the gravel. After that he grabbed the bottom rung and shoved hard—and the ladder slid back into place, suspended over our heads.

  “Little trick I learned a couple of days ago,” he said slyly.

  Now we were at the back of the building, hidden by the scaffold, away from the parking lot. I peered around to see if Harrison’s car was still there. Across from us was a one-way road, beyond that, the bike path through the woods.

  Connor signaled. We both broke into a sprint—not stopping after we’d crossed the road; all the windows of the MapOut building faced the bike path. We ducked into the woods and kept going. After a hundred yards, after the brush had gotten too thick to run, I stopped to catch my breath.

  I gazed up through the branches and treetops at the clear blue sky. The air felt cooler and damp; it smelled of pine and the particular whiff of sun on wood. How many times had I looked up like this? Hundreds, thousands, but every time the sky managed to appear beautiful and new. Maybe only because I was most comfortable picturing myself up there in the clouds, staring down.