Page 26 of Lock Every Door

“Remember” by Christina Rossetti.

Seeing it causes a slight hiccup in my chest. My heart skipping a single beat. I know this poem. It was read at my parents’ funeral.

Remember me when I am gone away.

Ironic, considering how I long to forget sitting in the front pew of that church my family had never attended, Chloe by my side, a smattering of mourners mute behind us. The poem was read by my high school English teacher—the kind and wonderful Mrs. James, her voice ringing through the silent church as she spoke the opening line.

On the back Ingrid has left me another note.

SORRY ABOUT YOUR ARM

With the same pen and paper I used earlier, I write my response.

It’s fine. No worries.

I put it in the dumbwaiter and send it to 11A, having an easier time this go-round. I’m prepared for both the weight and the distance.

I receive a response five minutes later, most of that time taken up by the dumbwaiter’s slow ascent. Inside is a fresh poem. “Fire and Ice” by Robert Frost.

Some say the world will end in fire.

On the back, Ingrid has written not another apology but a command.

CENTRAL PARK. IMAGINE. 15 MINUTES.

10

As instructed, I’m at the Imagine mosaic fifteen minutes later, looking for Ingrid among the usual crowd of tourists and grungy buskers playing Beatles songs. It’s a beautiful afternoon. Mid-sixties, sunny and clear. It reminds me of my childhood. Of pumpkins and piles of leaves and trick-or-treating.

It also reminds me of my mother, who adored this time of year. She called it Heather weather, because that was her name.

When I finally spot Ingrid, I see that in her hands are two hot dogs, one of which she holds out to me.

“An apology gift,” she says. “For being an idiot. I’ve always hated those people who look at their phones instead of where they’re going. Now I’ve become one. It’s inexcusable. I’m the lowest of the low.”

“It was just an accident.”

“A stupid, preventable one.” She takes a giant bite of her hot dog. “Did it hurt? I bet it hurt. You were bleeding a lot.”

She gasps.

“Did you need stitches? Tell me you didn’t need stitches.”

“Just a bandage,” I say.

Ingrid’s hand flies to her heart as she exhales dramatically. “Thank God. Ihatestitches. They say you’re not supposed to feel them, but I can. Those wire threads pulling at your skin. Ugh.”

She starts to move deeper into the park. Even though a mere minute in her company has left me exhausted, I follow. She’sfascinating in the same way tornadoes are fascinating. You want to see how much they’re going to spin.

Ingrid, it turns out, spins a lot. Walking a few paces ahead of me, she whirls around anytime she has something to say. Which is about every five seconds.

“I love the park. Don’t you?”

Whirl.

“It’s, like, this perfect wilderness smack-dab in the middle of the city.”

Whirl.

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