“Or both of us.”
It’s unclear if either of you really believes this. But even making room for a version of things where you’re not the sole cause of what happened to Sean feels lighter. Saying it out loud feels important. But if you’re not to blame—and it’s not clear if this is true just yet—then why did it happen? Why did he take such a risk? And why did he start pedaling in that moment where the whole world seemed to be screaming around him? Why did he propel himself into the eye of the storm?
You think back to the night he was so angry on the stairs, after he found your letter, and what he said. “It must be so easy for you.” It was a hurtful thing for him to assume, that your anxiety gave you some kind of free pass in life. But given what Diana has told you, maybe it wasn’t so much anger as it was longing. What was it like for him to have to be the “normal one”? Did he refuse to get help for problems of his own because he thought there wasn’t any more room in the family? Because you were filling thequota? You wish you could go back and tell him that if things were hard, there was space for him too.
“You were there,” says Diana, tucking her head against you. “Do you think he did it on purpose?”
It’s hard for you to picture clearly now. And you’re not sure if the view you had of the crash is even accurate, obscured as it was by passing traffic and the rain. It seemed, in that moment, like he was just taking off to get a jump on the competition, but he knew the light was red. He must have.
“I don’t think I’ll ever know,” you say.
She moves closer to you, and then both of you sit there for what feels like hours—but is probably minutes—in the semidark tent. Outside, the cold wind finds little openings to get in, but your combined breath warms the small space.
“Did you actually come here because of me?” you say. “Was that true, what you said?”
Diana is quiet for a second or two.
“Partly,” she says.
“But does that mean you’re just, like, here as a spy? Or did you actually need help?”
When she uncrosses her arms, her hand brushes against yours.
“I wanted the help too,” she says.
For just a second you’re disappointed it wasn’t all for you, one giant ploy to be close to you. But that’s quickly overridden by real concern.
“It started after he died,” she says. “I’ve been depressed before, but this was different. Not just the numbness and lack of energy; suddenly I was on edge all the time, hearing noises in the night.And drinking was the only thing that helped, but I didn’t want to do that all the time. I wasn’t sure how to handle it. It’s part of the reason I called you all those times. I thought you might know what to do.”
The unanswered calls bring back a current of shame, but you manage to set it aside. Diana stays in the sleeping bag next to yours, a softly breathing caterpillar. And for a moment, it feels like anything could happen. You’ve never been further away from your lives than right now. But the wind howling outside reminds you that you’ve also never been closer to losing them. Diana starts to move.
“I should go,” she says.
She pulls her legs out of the opening, but when she’s removing her feet, something leaves the sleeping bag with her. It rustles in the dim light. You catch a glimpse and it looks like some papers, wadded into a ziplock bag.
“Whoa,” you say. “What is that?”
Diana opens the tent flap to a window, letting in more moonlight. She gathers up the ziplock and turns it around in her hands.
“I don’t know,” she says, opening the bag. “I can’t believe we never checked his sleeping bag.”
She takes out the contents and unfolds them, turning them in the soft blue light. There’s enough visibility now to see her expression, which is one of quiet awe.
“I could be wrong,” she says softly. “But it looks like a map.”
THIRTY-SIX
It just sits there overnight, sealed in its plastic wrapper. You wake up frequently from anxiety dreams. But every time you check, you find the map right on top of the sleeping bag where Diana left it. And when daybreak finally illuminates your tent like a lantern, and the island comes alive with birdsong, you take it out of the bag and carry it to the middle of your campsite. Fran and Will are already up, organizing their packs and nibbling on handfuls of bitter, foraged plants.
“What’s that?” asks Will.
You set the map on a sizable rock and motion for them to come closer.
“I think it’s what we’ve been looking for,” you say.
Fran’s jaw drops when she sees it. You didn’t know people’s faces actually did that, short of severe injury. Will leans in closer, gnawing on a bunch of greens. The map is the color of raw honey, spattered with cobalt lakes that nearly glow in the morning light. It’s been heavily worn, but the colors are still vibrant, and near the top of the map is a single red dot, made from a Sharpie who knows how long ago. Fran reaches down and sets the tip of her pointer finger there.
“How did I miss this?!” she says. “Was it in his tent the whole time?”
