The Cartographer

“Eli needs to stop making maps,” said Mrs. Dyer, his first grade teacher, “it bothers the other children.”

Eli’s parents listened as Mrs. Dyer explained the situation. They pretended it was a surprise, but they watched the same pattern at home every night.

It wasn’t that Eli liked to make maps. He had to make them. He would spill some milk on the table during breakfast, and then he would grab his notebook. At first, he entered a trance as he studied the pools of milk. Then the calm would transition into a frenzy of pencil lead. He wouldn’t look at anything else, wouldn’t respond if you called his name. He wouldn’t stop until he had finished his map, with lakes shaped exactly like the spilled milk.

Mrs. Dyer showed them some examples: a star-chart of a little girl’s freckles, a topographical map depicting the divorce of another boy’s parents. Worst of all was the “road map” of the teacher’s terrible lesson plan. It was like a nightmare for a parent, to know your child was making something so unsettling.

That night, Eli’s parents wanted to tell him to please stop making the maps. But he was asleep in his bed, and beside him was a map of the world. On a sheet of posterboard, the oceans and continents had shifted in Eli’s mind. There were new mountain ranges, new deserts, new cities. In this world, you could see Eli’s mother and father, their faces in profile, looking at each other with so much love.

The next morning, Eli’s parents told him about a new school he was going to. It would be better, they said. It was a school for very bright children, they said. You’re a wonderful gift Eli, and we love you, they said.