Mapmaker Read online

  I turned to Connor. Both of us were still panting from the run. Our eyes caught and he turned away, quickly glancing down at the ground. We stood for a moment in what felt like an awkward silence.

  “Tanya?” he gasped.

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember how we used to play together out by that river behind your house, when we were kids?”

  I nodded. So he’d remembered, as well. My face flushed a little. “It feels a little like that,” I managed.

  We also spent time indoors. We spied on our parents. We could be alone and together at the same time … There was so much more I could add. Up in the attic, I’d studied atlases and globes and computer screens. He’d stayed with the toys, building robots and strange rockets with tentacles and wheels that could land on faraway planets. Whatever we’d done, we’d felt comfortable enough to spend time together without having to talk. That was what made his disappearance all the more hurtful. The silence had become permanent.

  “You moved,” I said. “I wrote you a letter once … I think?” I tried to sound vague but I remembered it all so clearly: writing the address in New York City, inscribing each number of the zip code so the mailman would be able to read it. And how I sealed the envelope with my tongue and a glow-in-the-dark sticker of a star. “Did you ever get it?” My voice sounded strange even to me. High-pitched and unsure.

  I waited for him to answer. I heard my heart thumping. I felt it in my throat. So did you? Did you get the letter I spent days composing? Wasted my entire set of Crane stationery on rewrites? Did you?

  Connor finally shrugged and flashed a smile like his dad’s. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure I did. I was just going through a lot with the divorce and everything.”

  I kept my face perfectly still. Then why didn’t you write back? I could have been there for you. Why didn’t you ever keep in touch? Because telling me you wanted to write me about Dad but never did feels like a cop-out.

  “No big deal,” I said, using my not-caring-or-paying-attention voice.

  “Cool,” he said.

  I almost felt like applauding myself. I was wasting my time with this MapOut internship. I should have been an actress.

  After we’d put enough distance between ourselves and MapOut, we found our way back to the bike path and headed toward Amherst College. It was noon and only a few cyclists were out. It felt as though we had this gorgeous day all to ourselves, that it belonged only to us.

  “I saw Beth the other day,” Connor said.

  “My stepmother, Beth?”

  He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes on the packed dirt. “She was in the office having lunch with my dad. She’s the one who told me you’d be working here this summer.”

  I stopped short. “She was at the office? Why?”

  Connor turned to me. “Um, probably because she was married to your dad?” He was smiling, but his forehead was creased.

  “Right.” I kept walking, not liking the way my voice had sounded. Still, I was annoyed that Beth had been hanging around the MapOut offices. Would she be there this summer? Checking up on me, like she always did? I couldn’t stop myself from asking in the exact same voice: “I guess Beth likes to trek off on her own, too, huh?”

  He sighed. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything …”

  “No, I’m sorry.” I almost reached out to touch his arm, but stopped.

  “You know, what I really meant to say just now is that I’m sorry I didn’t answer your letter.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “I miss those times when we were kids. I miss when your dad and my dad would argue.”

  I frowned. “You do?

  Connor cracked a smile and tried to hide it. “Yeah. Your dad would put my dad in his place. Nobody really does that anymore.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You know … the way your dad would try to make a case that maps should be free to whoever wanted them. ‘People can’t own maps any more than they can own truth!’” Connor quoted in an eerily dead-on imitation of my father. “He actually said that. Maps were just a form of truth. My dad would be like, ‘Are you crazy? Why would we share our data for free when we could sell it?’” Connor’s eyes darkened. He shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “What?” I pressed, suddenly caught up in Connor’s memory.

  “Nothing,” he mumbled. “You know what I liked most about your dad? He hated texting. He was always ranting to my dad about having real conversations or just not using the phone at all. I’m the same way. I hate the phone. I hate texting.”

  I processed the words. There were so many ways I could have answered, so many directions I could take this conversation. Was Connor trying to comfort me in some way because he still felt guilty that he hadn’t reached out to me when my dad had died? Did he hate the phone because of his dad? Harrison’s fortune was built on phone technology. Did Connor really want to help build wells in Tanzania? Was that why he was always so weirdly coiled and distant and attentive at the same time, as if one step away from pouncing on something? Because he truly wanted a “real” experience, like my dad? Because he knew he had to pounce on something if he got the chance?

  But what popped out of my mouth was: “So where are we going, anyway?”

  As we walked past the tennis courts of Amherst College and along Main Street I felt happy, lit up inside in a way I hadn’t since Dad was alive. I knew part of it was because of Connor, but I would never admit that fully, not even to myself. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him until today; I hadn’t even allowed myself to think about him. But he’d shared a part of my life no one ever would or could, the part where I’d been the third member of a family—the best part, those years before Mom died.

  “Three is a magic number,” she used to sing to me, even in the hospital when she was sick: an old kids’ song from her youth, about two parents with an only child.

  Connor reminded me of being that number three; he brought that feeling back. Just being around him anchored me to my past. I don’t think he had any idea that I missed him when he moved away or how much I cared about him. I also guessed he really didn’t need to know. Besides, he probably wouldn’t understand even if I ever tried to tell him.

  I wasn’t surprised that he chose The Black Sheep Café, on Main Street, across from the common. It was an Amherst institution, crowded with students: pita-bread hippie-veggie sandwiches with crazy names, bottomless coffee, oversized double chocolate cupcakes. We stood in line, reading aloud the names of sandwiches from the blackboard, debating. In the end we ordered two Herbivores and two iced coffees with milk—and a black-and-white cookie to share.

  Connor insisted on paying, so I let him. Usually I would have argued and insisted on splitting the bill, thinking that’s what being an independent/​modern/​feminist type of girl was about. This time I didn’t argue too much. Besides, what did I have to prove? He was the richer of us. No doubt his dad handed him a hefty allowance. Not to mention that Harrison was now sole owner of the company—a company that had skyrocketed in value since my dad’s death and days as a partner there …

  Obviously I wasn’t bitter.

  We found a table for two in the back of the café. A middle-aged man with a long, brown beard, receding hair—in too-short cutoffs and tie-dyed T-shirt—played acoustic Grateful Dead covers on his guitar. All I noticed were his uncut toenails poking out of his Birkenstocks. Sometimes this town felt like a caricature of itself: a mixture of ’60s-era hippies and preppy college students wanting to be associated with … this guy.

  Connor’s phone buzzed on the table. Before he could grab it, the image of a girl appeared on the screen. FaceTime. The girl had long, straight, bright blonde hair (too bright in my opinion), a perfect smile. I only glanced for a second but I saw her name, ISABEL CHASE, light up across the screen.

  “Thinking of you ;)”

  I called FaceTime “UglyTime.” That’s what it felt like whenever I used it but Isabel actually looked pretty on the sc
reen.

  He grabbed the phone, pressed IGNORE, and put it facedown on the table. A few seconds later, the phone buzzed again.

  “Who’s Isabel?”

  “How’s your sandwich?” he replied.

  “Is she your girlfriend?”

  Connor looked up with a flash of annoyance. “Another reason I hate the phone. Are you one of those people who’ll ask about everyone who calls?”

  “Why, is something wrong with that?”

  “It’s about privacy, that’s all,” he said.

  I rolled my eyes. “Privacy? We work for a company whose business it is to map every millimeter of the Earth. Privacy goes out the window when it’s impossible to get lost.” I stared at him. “Isn’t that part of why you wanted to go to Tanzania?”

  He smirked. “Point made.”

  I couldn’t resist persisting. “So, you didn’t answer the question. Is she your girlfriend?”

  Connor let out a sigh. “Isabel was in my freshman lit class. We sorta-kinda started seeing each other last semester.”

  “She’s pretty,” I said.

  “Thanks.”

  An awkward few minutes ticked slowly by. Avoiding each other’s eyes, we chewed our messy pitas and wiped our mouths with napkins. My stomach felt tight. I could barely taste the food. My phony confidence was fading into real embarrassment. Talking about his girlfriend was a no-no. But why? She was smart (she went to Stanford) and pretty (in the universal guy-taste way), and straight-white-teeth smiley (in a toothpaste-commercial way). If I were a guy I’d have been proud if she were my girlfriend. Why was he acting so cagey about the whole thing? Why would anybody try to hide something like that? Unless …

  My mind jumped back to the conversation we’d had on the bike path.

  “Wait,” I said, thinking out loud. “Do you think Beth and Harrison are …?” I wasn’t sure how to phrase this, exactly. What would you use for middle-aged parents? Everything sounded seedy, gross. Hooking up? Dating? “Seeing each other?” I finished.

  Connor sneered. “My dad and Beth? Are you kidding me? My dad only dates second-tier Victoria’s Secret models.”

  “You mean he doesn’t find the turtleneck/​fleece/​baggy jeans/​clogs combo hot?” I was joking, but I felt a cold, sick feeling start in my stomach and spread into my throat. I’d never really trusted Beth. I’m not sure exactly why; she’d never been anything but good to me. Maybe it was because she was too good. Maybe it was the cloying way she showed up on our doorstep with lasagna and pies right after my mother died. Or the way she had sewn a lace collar on my favorite green sweatshirt, thinking I’d like it.

  “Tanya—”

  “Forget it,” I interrupted. “I’m sure she had a good reason to be there.”

  Connor shifted in his chair uncomfortably. He reached for his coffee, taking a sip and glancing back at the hippie singer.

  “What?” I asked.

  “What do you mean, what?” he said.

  “You’re a crap liar. You always have been, even when we were kids. You’re all fidgety now, which means you’re hiding something.”

  He turned back to me and raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t realize I was having lunch with an undercover FBI agent. Do you really want to know why Beth was at MapOut? She wanted access to your dad’s private computer. She wanted to see the last emails he sent from work.”

  I blinked at him. “Did Harrison let her?”

  “Yes. My dad wants access to his computer, too. I guess there’s some company business he needs information about.”

  “So did Beth get in?”

  Connor shook his head. “Nope. He triple-gated the encryption. Your dad was secretive—” He stopped himself. There was an edge in his voice.

  I shoved my plate aside. “What are you saying?” I snapped. “He was trying to hide something from your dad?”

  He swallowed. “Not from my dad,” he muttered, avoiding my eyes. “I really didn’t want to be the one to tell you this … Beth thinks he was having an affair.”

  “Oh, come on.” I burst out laughing. “That’s insane. Your dad’s the affair type, not mine.”

  Connor leaned back. His lips pressed into a tight line.

  What the hell was my problem? Not only had I said the wrong thing, I’d used a thoughtless insult as a weapon. I wished I could take it back. Harrison’s affairs were what led to the divorce, which led to Connor moving away, which led to the ensuing custody battle where he was forced to take sides … and finally to the separation from his mother and his foray into being an über-achiever. All to win back the impossibly hard-to-get approval and attention he craved. In seconds, I’d turned his Achilles’ heel into a glib joke.

  “You need a filter,” Connor said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He held my gaze under his bangs. “Anyway, I’m not the one who accused your dad of having an affair. It was Beth. That’s why she wanted to see his emails.”

  I nodded. I had a sudden flashback to that wintry day when I saw the footsteps in the snow—so convinced my dad wasn’t dead, so convinced that everything was normal. I could feel my flesh turning cold.

  “Are you okay?” Connor asked, his voice softening.

  “Yeah.” I focused on him, shoving the pain from my mind. “It’s just … someone came by our house last winter, someone who didn’t want to be seen. I wonder if Beth asked your dad to snoop around on my dad.”

  Connor chewed his lip. “I don’t know. I doubt it though.”

  I didn’t think so, either, really. I couldn’t imagine Harrison’s doing anyone else’s bidding but his own. But someone had wanted something from my dad. I leaned closer. “Listen. Can you get me into my dad’s office? Then I can get into my dad’s computer.”

  Connor flashed an amused smile. He mimicked me, leaning in, closing the distance between us, speaking in a hushed voice. “Just so you know, my dad had his three top computer guys try to hack in. Then he hired Blaze from MIT.”

  “Blaze?” I repeated. Clearly the name was supposed to mean something.

  “A hacker. Never mind. He couldn’t do it, either. Whoever your dad was emailing had serious security paranoia.”

  I nodded. “Got it, but I still want to try.”

  “Tanya—”

  “Just let me try, okay? If my dad was having an affair, I want to know. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  His smile faded. Once again, he held my gaze. “I need you to promise me,” he whispered in a low voice. “You can’t tell anyone I did this.”

  I nodded, thrown by his intensity. “I won’t. I swear.” I held my hand out to shake on. He took my hand in his. He didn’t shake it, but turned my palm upward. I felt his forefinger tracing letters in my palm: P … R …

  It was something we used to do when we were kids, seated next to each other when we’d be trapped at dinner with our parents. I giggled as he continued. O … M … We’d finger-write messages to each other and stifle our laughter. I … S … Our hands were bigger now, of course, but the sensation brought back a flood of memories—swift and intense. I raised my eyes to meet his, feeling just a slight flush as I smiled.

  “Promise,” I whispered.

  He traced the final E and held on for a moment, his finger lingering. Just like on the fire escape, I didn’t want him to let go.

  Beth was planting green beans in the garden when I pulled my bike around the side of the house. She looked up at me, raising the brim on her straw sun hat.

  “Hey there. How was your first day?”

  I stood watching her, my backpack hanging from one shoulder. It was close to six. The early evening sun was still high above the western woods. “It was all right. I can’t believe the renovation Harrison is doing. Have you seen it?”

  Beth removed one of her gardening gloves and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’ve seen it. I … went there to talk to him.”

  So she passed the test; she’d admitted to being there, and more. Normally this would have
been where I walked into the house, grabbed a snack from the kitchen, and locked my bedroom door behind me. Instead I asked, “Do you need any help?”

  Beth looked up, startled. “Really? Do you want to pull out some carrots? If you’re in for dinner?”

  I nodded. “I’m in.”

  In the kitchen I peeled, washed, and chopped the carrots. I let the cool water wash over my hands, looking into the metal sink, strategizing how I would get Beth to open up about Connor’s suspicions.

  The oven timer rang, jolting me.

  I turned to see Beth taking the quiche from the oven.

  While I’d been at the sink, she had set the table, complete with a fresh pink peony from the garden. She’d folded yellow cloth napkins in triangles and set the knives and forks. I thought she did this type of thing only for my dad: the flower in the vase, the delicious-looking meal complete with decorative tomato and pinched pie crust. Maybe this was her way of showing me I was family, too. That we were all we had left.

  “So I have a stack of summer reading I thought I could get away with sneaking at the internship … Did you ever read The End of the Affair by Graham Greene?”

  I shoved a piece of lettuce into my mouth. Was I being too obvious? Dinner had been ten minutes of excruciating silence so far. Was there a way I could get her to tell me who she thought my dad was having an affair with? Or what I really wanted to know: if she’d recruited someone to snoop around his things after he’d passed away.

  Beth put her fork down on her plate, making a clinking sound. She seemed to be staring at the wall. “The End of the Affair? Yes. It’s one of my favorites.”

  I sipped some water. “I think Dad liked that book a lot. Well, I know he loved Graham Greene. You know what’s weird that I’ve been thinking about?”

  “What?” Beth smiled. Not a real smile, only a turn of her lips, weak and tired.

  “Whenever Dad went away, he would send me an email. I mean even if it just said ‘Hi, I’m in Cambodia’ or whatever. Always an email, never a text … you know how he was. The other day I looked back at my emails from him and the last one he sent was five days before he died.”