The Map of Longing

Chapter 3

Will Tucker

This is the situation: I’m sitting in front of a box which, in theory, contains the Map of Longing, and I can’t open it. The same is true of the purple envelope I’m holding in my hand, which I’ve looked at from all angles, wishing I had the superpower to see through it and read the letter inside.

In big letters, it reads Will Tucker.

And a little below that, there’s an address. The street sounds familiar. I know it’s in downtown Ink Lake. I’d need just twenty minutes to ride there if I decided to get on my bike and take off, but that doesn’t seem likely.

I feel paralyzed.

I have the strange feeling that Lucy both is and isn’t here at the same time. It’s unsettling, especially when I realize how hard I’ve struggled not to think about her lately, not to remember her, to keep from crying every day.

“I don’t understand,” I repeat again.

“Maybe that’s the point, Greta.”

“But like… Why didn’t she tell me anything? We told each other everything. Or almost everything. I mean, she did, at least.”

“Oh, so you were allowed to keep secrets, but Lucy wasn’t.” Grandpa raises an eyebrow and then sighs. “I’m going to make coffee.”

“Make mine extra strong, please.”

I know what he was getting at before he left the room, but he doesn’t understand that there were times when it felt cruel for me to tell Lucy I was going to a party that night or I had a date with some guy, so yeah, I had my secrets.

I did it for her—for her and for me, because I hated the guilt I felt when I left and she had to stay behind in the hospital with all those cells, hers and mine, fighting an exhausting battle alongside an army of corticosteroids that turned her complexion olive green, swelled her face, and made her skin itch and flake off.

But I thought I knew everything about Lucy.

Because in all honesty, everything wasn’t very much.

During the summer break, she would meet with some of her friends from back in school if they were in town.

And sometimes she’d go see her friend Marge at the café where she worked.

The last guy she had something with was named Tom, and that was more than three years ago.

But now I’m not so sure about that. Because I’m holding in my hands an envelope with the name of an unknown person.

Will.

Will Tucker.

I whisper it aloud with the hope that some memory will come to my mind, but no, I’m sure I’ve never heard it before.

I want to open the box so bad I can barely hold back, and I’m thankful when Grandpa appears with two cups of coffee because otherwise, I think I’d have broken Lucy’s rules before even starting the game.

“I still don’t get it,” I say.

Grandpa sighs again, “Greta, you’ve just got to follow the rules.”

“You know I’m no good at that.” I burn my tongue on the coffee, but I don’t care. I’m numb. “How long have you known about this craziness?”

“A few months…”

A few months before her death would be the correct phrase, but I don’t need to say it aloud for him to acknowledge it.

It’s hard for me to imagine them planning all this behind my back, especially him, but I also get why she chose him and why he agreed.

How could he refuse to fulfill the last wishes of his beloved granddaughter?

“You really don’t know Will?”

“I told you, I don’t,” he replies, starting to lose patience. “Are you going to go see him?”

I nod, still thinking, and lay the envelope down over the puffy bow on the box.

I look at the time on my phone; it’s five in the afternoon.

I decide that, before setting off toward this mysterious address, I should go home to see how Mom’s doing and take a shower, so I say goodbye to Grandpa, kiss him on the cheek, and promise him I’ll keep him informed and we’ll have dinner together the night before he leaves.

Something that used to get my attention when I was little was the characteristic scent of each home.

It goes beyond the cologne or fabric softener each family uses.

Before crossing the threshold of a house, I used to be perfectly capable of distinguishing the scent of Olivia, my best friend’s place, from my neighbors’ or from Grandpa’s.

That’s why it’s so weird that my home doesn’t smell like anything.

It’s antiseptic, like a museum or a lawyer’s waiting room.

I’ve always had the feeling anyone could move in and make it theirs in five minutes because, despite the photos in the living room, it never has been a warm home.

I don’t know if that has to do with the indifference between my parents, the fact that we’ve spent as much time in hospital rooms as we have here, or that we’ve gotten used to celebrating special occasions like birthdays or Christmases at my grandfather’s.

When I arrive, all I encounter is silence.

My father’s keys aren’t in the entryway, so I assume he’s left.

Mom’s on the sofa, staring at the TV, and she looks like a sad little girl.

I look at her doubtfully from the door for a few seconds but decide it’s best not to tell her anything about the Map of Longing, at least for now.

I don’t know how she’d take it and I’m sure that, despite Lucy’s instructions, she would open the box I have in my hands as fast as she could, anxious to find some trace of the daughter she’s lost inside it.

I go up to my room and open the closet to take out clean clothes.

The bed hasn’t been made in two days, my now-unused desk is covered in junk, and on the wall is a black-and-white photo of an arm with gooseflesh next to an article about tornadoes and electric storms I cut out of a magazine, a postcard of Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss and Post-its with random words.

Next to Why? I see the one with nepheloid.

I pull on it till it comes off the wall, crumple it into a ball, and throw into the trash can.

I think about Lucy’s letter as hot water falls on my face and I suppress the longing to cry as I remember her sweet and tranquil voice when she used to call me little Greta.

I liked that too. Then I get out, pull the knots out of my hair, and ignore the brunette with the pale skin I see in the mirror.

A secret: Sometimes I don’t like her. I take a deep breath and decide whatever Lucy’s rules are, I’m honoring them to the letter.

Anyway, it’s not like I have anything better to do.

Literally. I’ve been looking for a job for weeks, ever since they fired me from Pizza K, and the idea that I might find another gig I can stand is turning more and more unlikely.

I dress in black jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt.

I’m about to walk out with the golden package in my backpack when my mother intercepts me in the hallway and smiles reluctantly.

“Where you headed? Going to see Olivia?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what time I’m getting back.”

“Give her my regards.”

I get on my bike and ride toward the center of town. Eight months have passed since Olivia stopped talking to me, but my mother has no idea. She hasn’t noticed Olivia never comes over anymore. So much the better. That means I don’t have to lie to her when she asks me what happened between us.

I turn toward the street written on the envelope and chain my bike to a streetlight when I get close.

Most of the places around here are closed.

I look for the house number, walk up to a black door, and realize it isn’t a house; it’s a pub called Zinrock that has just opened for the day.

I go inside. The bartender is around thirty years old and has tattooed arms. Will?

Maybe. I’ve never seen him before, that’s for sure.

He looks up when he sees me come to the bar and arches his brows.

I imagine most of their customers show up after nightfall, and he’s probably confused by my cautious attitude as I study him and the surroundings, even though there’s nothing special about the place.

It’s your typical bar young people go to for a couple of beers at the end of the night.

“Will Tucker?”

“Who’s asking?” He looks me up and down. “I wasn’t aware that Will associated with other human beings. It’s an unexpected surprise.”

He laughs at himself, but I don’t get it, obviously.

“You know where I can find him? I need to talk to him.”

He looks away from me and over to a corner.

“There he is,” he says, then, addressing the guy he’s just pointed to, “You’re late again.”

The response isn’t an I’m sorry or an It won’t happen again; it’s an irritable grunt, and I turn around to face a complete stranger.

If I had to describe him objectively—what he looked like, but not how he made me feel—I’d say dark hair, angular features, too tall for my taste, striking green eyes that look tired or distressed, furrowed brow, tense shoulders covered by a black jacket.

Those shoulders are big and broad. They make me think of a college football star.

I know he’s handsome—anyone would know he was handsome—and as soon as I admit that to myself, I start trying to write him off.

He’s frivolous, I tell myself, shallow, like an ornately painted Easter egg that’s hollow inside.

As for what he made me feel, think of grains of corn popping in a frying pan, a bluish butterfly about to die, fresh water falling over a mountainside, the sharp flavor of mint, the grandeur of cirrus clouds. And most importantly, I can almost see a melancholy purple aura floating behind him.

He ignores me like I am invisible.

“I got stuck in traffic,” he says.

“Whatever, Will.” The bartender’s tattoos seem to come to life when he raises his arms to place a few bottles on the shelf. “You got a visitor.”

Finally, finally, this Will looks at me.

And his expression is as shocked as if his coworker had just told him a UFO had landed out front.

“Who the hell are you?”

Well, you’re a polite one, aren’t you?

I take a breath. Gather my courage, maybe. I don’t know.

“My name’s Greta. Lucy Peterson sent me.”

“Lucy…” Nervous, he runs his hand through his hair. “How is she?”

So he doesn’t know.

Who could matter so much to my sister that she’d make him a part of her game even if she obviously didn’t talk to him that much?

I look for the right words with the hope that I’ll find a soft way to say it, but who am I kidding? It’s a lost cause.

“She died four months ago.”

Will blinks, incredulous at first, then wounded. He swallows and clenches his teeth and looks away.

“Fuck,” he finally gets out.

Then he leaves. And his absence sucks every ounce of air out of the room.

The clinking of the glasses the bartender was putting up goes silent. He throws his rag over his shoulder and looks at me carefully.

“Who’d you say you were?”

“None of your business.”

“Hey, wait…”

But I don’t pay him any mind. In the end, this is between Will and me.

I shove the door open and walk out. The cold bites into my skin.

There’s not a trace of Will. He’s vanished.

Walking down the street holding the package to my chest, I pass a few people: a man with a bouquet of flowers, a woman walking a short-legged dog, a couple of teenagers.

None of them is him. I’m about to give up when I cross through a traffic light and see him sitting on the steps of a row house on a dead-end street.

He’s not crying. He’s just looking at the wall in front of him, absorbed.

For a moment, he reminds me of one of those Roman busts we studied in art history at school: noble, intriguing, unmoved.

His hair even curls a little like the hair on those statues, especially near his temples and on the back of his neck.

He seems made of marble, granite, or even something harder.

“You want to tell me what’s up with you?” I ask.

I walk up the street angrily. He hesitates before looking up at me.

“I’ve got better things to do than go chasing you around,” I continue. That’s a lie, of course, but a girl’s got her pride.

He doesn’t even bother to respond. He just sighs deeply and stands up. I have to look up to see into his eyes.

“Here.” I press the envelope into his chest.

“What’s this?”

“A letter.”

“Obviously.”

“A letter from Lucy.”

“For me?”

“Yeah, for you, Will.”

I don’t know if he’s still too shaken up or if he’s just dumb.

He doesn’t look dumb, though. Behind that unflappable wall, I can sense a storm brewing.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other while he finally decides to open the envelope.

He takes out a single sheet of paper, and I scroll through my phone to give him some privacy, though the truth is, I want to jerk the letter out of his big hands and read it.

He runs a hand through his hair.

Then, he folds it delicately down the middle and puts it back in the envelope. I try to concentrate, but since he doesn’t react, I eventually ask, “Everything okay?”

Finally, he looks at me.

There’s something different in his eyes. Is it possible to look confused and calm at the same time?

“Greta, right? Give me your number,” he demands, and I almost blush and joke he should buy me a drink first. But in light of the situation, I suppress my sarcastic side and limit myself to doing what he asks. “What are you up to Thursday?”

“Nothing.”

The truth is, I’m never up to anything interesting, just hanging out with Taylor, looking for work, or occasionally going to some party where I stick out like a sore thumb.

“I’m going to text you so you can give me your address. I’ll come pick you up at four. By the way, I get to keep the box.”

He snatches it out of my hands without hesitation and I feel a strange, stifling sensation in my throat, as if he’s just taken part of Lucy away from me—the one thing I have left of her.

“But wait…” My mouth is dry. “What’s all this about? Can you tell me what the letter says? I don’t even know how you and Lucy knew each other.”

“Sorry, I’ve got to go back to work.”

And that’s that—he just up and walks away.

He doesn’t even bother looking both ways before he crosses the street.

His stride is firm, self-assured, but slow, as if weighed down by something.

I stand there observing him until he disappears with the circle of sorrow that envelopes him.

In my head, it’s the color of wisteria. And that thought, the vision of those flowers cascading down, makes me shiver.