Free The Girl in the Wall by Alison Preston Page A

her need to protect it.
    She knew she could try out either idea, getting smaller or getting bigger, without George’s blessing, but she did like to have him on her side.
    Mrs. Mortimer was just five feet, one inch tall. She had a matronly appearance at a very young age — no waist, a kind of straight-up-and-down look. People often took her to be older than she was, even with her childlike ways. She stooped slightly and had worn glasses since the age of eight. On this day, the day of her curious warm feeling, she was a fairly elderly-looking twenty. Her age didn’t often come up. There was no reason it would. She was just an odd little woman who took photographs.
    â€œLet’s take our hot chocolate outside,” she said.
    It was after supper on that same November day. All the new snow had melted and there was no wind to speak of.
    She and George set themselves up on the dusty porch furniture in their winter coats and gloves.
    â€œI heard geese today,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “And last night I dreamed a robin.”
    â€œIt’s a long time till spring,” said George.
    It was nearly pitch dark already with only the dim glow from the street lights casting shadows.
    She told him about the warm feeling and her hope to keep it safe.
    â€œI get it about the warm feeling,” George said, “and I’m happy you’ve had it, but I know, I don’t just think, I know, that you can’t protect it by embiggening your body, as you say. It’s something you can protect in other ways.”
    â€œHow, Georgie?”
    She blew on her hot chocolate and took a tentative sip.
    â€œWell, with your mind, for instance.”
    â€œHow?”
    She was beginning to wish she hadn’t mentioned it. George was about to explain something to her that she wasn’t going to get.
    â€œWell, let’s see,” he said. “It may even be that the mind is called what it is because it minds things, like the feelings inside you. It looks after them if you let it, kind of like a babysitter minds kids, looks after them.”
    â€œHow do I let it?” she asked.
    The sound of bicycle tires through a puddle broke the silence around them. A young man loomed out of the dark, leaving a small wake behind him as he passed. He waved and George waved back.
    â€œThat’s Frank Foote,” he said. “Why didn’t you wave?”
    â€œI was thinking about what you said.”
    Mrs. Mortimer waved now, but it was too late. The young man had already turned a corner.
    â€œIf someone is nice to you, you should be sure to be nice back,” George said.
    â€œI know that by now, I think.”
    â€œYou should have waved at Frank. He’s a good guy.”
    â€œI was busy thinking about what you said. And I’m drinking hot chocolate. How many things do you expect me to do at once? Sheesh!”
    George sighed and went inside. Mrs. Mortimer followed him.
    â€œHow do I let it?” she asked again.
    â€œLet what?”
    She couldn’t remember what she was asking about. The conversation disappeared into the nowhere land that she imagined she would go to one day to find out all the things she couldn’t understand or whose meanings she couldn’t hang on to.
    â€œNothing,” she said.
    She felt terrible about not waving to Frank in time. She should have known to do so. George said.
    When she went to bed that night she relived the hospital scene as best she could in an effort to bring back the warm feeling.
    It worked.

16
    Mrs. Mortimer began to feel that her lucky days were those when she was summoned before life was entirely gone from a body. Families worried that their dead would get rolled away before they had their chance to get their pictures. They felt helpless up against hospital efficiencies. This happy situation didn’t occur very often and it was under these circumstances that there were usually the most people hovering. They were desperate to be