The stone castle towers in front of us. Its intricate arches are covered in snow and look like they’re from another century. Streetlamps in front must light up the castle at night for everyone to see. I let out a deep sigh, thinking about the Polaroid picture.
“What’re you thinking?” Andy asks.
“Oh, nothing,” I say, but then think of something. “What’s the number on the paper heart, again?”
“Six.”
I nod, looking from Andy back to the castle. What on earth could six have to do with anything? I look up to start counting the windows and see people on top of the castle, peering over the stone wall.
“Do we go up?” I ask.
Andy nods. “Maybe we have to look to six o’clock or something?”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
“Wow,” Andy says.
“What?” I ask, starting for the entrance.
“Nothing. I just like to bask in my compliments from you.”
I laugh. “I said it’s not a bad idea. I take back the compliment if you’re wrong.”
“That’s not how compliments work.”
“Sure it is,” I argue.
We make our way through the entrance and then up the steep winding staircase. At the top, we are let out onto a terrace with a clear view of Central Park and the Manhattan skyline.
“Which way is six o’clock?” I ask, making my way to the edge.
Beyond the icy pond are snow-covered trees, and people the size of my thumb roaming the park. I’m about to say we need to think of something else when Andy comes up next to me.
“Whoa, this is incredible,” he says. “When you said Belvedere means ‘beautiful view,’ I assumed it was referring to the castle itself. But this view is incredible.”
I look out again at the six o’clock angle. I run my hand along the rail, searching for a paper heart. I even bend down to see if there are any hidden cracks where my admirer could’ve stuffed the next heart.
My shoulders slump as I stand back up. I really hoped Andy was right, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“That’s the Delacorte Theater,” he says, pointing to a snow-covered amphitheater. “In the summer there are free Shakespeare performances there. And that over there looks like a baseball field,” he says, now moving his hand to an area off in the distance surrounded by gates.
“Remember how I said I could take your compliment away?” I ask.
He frowns. “We’re already up here. We might as well take it all in.”
“I know you’re going to tell me that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t look for clues, he just looks,” I say, sighing. “But please don’t. All I want is to find this paper heart.”
It’s pathetic, I know. Here I am in this beautiful castle in the middle of New York City with one of the most incredible views I’ve ever seen and I’m focused on finding a flimsy piece of paper.
Andy looks to me. “We’ll find it,” he assures me. “Just relax for a second.”
The funny thing about having someone tell you to relax is that it always has the opposite effect. I want to say I am relaxed, but arguing will make me look tense. Suddenly, I feel all wound up, like the castle’s winding staircase. Andy’s eyes are calm, though, as he looks off the balcony.
“Whenever I see people from far away, or from up above like we are now, the small people remind me of illustrations in a children’s book,” Andy starts to say. “I like to give them stories.”
For a second, I think he’s kidding in his typical Andy way, but he’s looking out onto the stretch of emptiness in front of us.
“There are little people everywhere going about their lives, like we are,” Andy continues. “Like that family over there—do you see them?”
I follow his pointing finger to a family of four playing in the snow. One little kid is running around and another is building something. Maybe a snowman, but it’s hard to tell from so far away.
“What’s their story?” he asks me.
“Uh…they’re a family playing in the snow?”
“Oh, come on. I know you have more of an imagination than that.”
I roll my eyes at him.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me. You’re not even trying!”
“Fine,” I say, looking back at the family. “The mom has lost something important. A necklace, maybe…or actually, her wedding ring.”
“Which one?” Andy asks. “They create very different stories.”
“Wedding ring,” I decide. “That’s why the boy is digging in the snow. He’s searching for it. The other boy is running around because he’s panicking.” I stop my story, looking to him for approval. He steps closer to me to see what I’m looking at before turning to me.
“Why are Mom and Dad still next to each other?” he asks.
“The dad is comforting her,” I suggest.
“Why would he comfort her if it’s her fault?” Andy asks.
“Because this is a make-believe story and I say so,” I answer.
Andy laughs. “Well, in your fictional story, why is he comforting her?”
I look at the couple again. His arm is around her shoulder.
“He wants her to know it’s okay. She didn’t mean to lose the ring. He still loves her, and that’s more important than what she lost. The ring isn’t as important as the memories,” I finish.
“Why?” Andy asks again.
“Because memories are the most important thing there is,” I say with a shakier voice than I intend to. I’m not sad, exactly; I think more than anything I’m surprised that I’m finally able to put into words why my memory loss has been affecting me as much as it has.
He looks at me and then focuses on my lips, and for a second I could swear he wants to kiss me. But then his eyes dart back to mine.
“What?” I ask, because he has been staring at me for a second too long.
He grins at me. “I think they’re just a family playing in the snow,” he finally says.
“You’re impossible.” I laugh. “Why did you want me to make up that whole story?”
“It’s fun to watch you squirm. Plus, it was a good story. I’d recommend it at the library.”
I punch him in the arm. “Quit distracting me and help me find this paper heart!”