Kyra's Keyring

Kyra dialed Amy’s number. “Mom? Is something wrong? It is two a.m.”

Kyra looked at the clock. “Oh, sorry, Honey. I couldn’t sleep. I reviewed the keys on my ring, and you are right. I don’t need them.”

“Mom, can we talk about this in the morning?”

**

“What is this to?”

“The house on 41^st street.”

“You haven’t lived there for twelve years. Why is it on your key ring?”

Kyra stares out the window.

Amy continues, “Ma, this blue key?”

“Huh?”

“Blue key, Ma. What’s it open?”

“The garage on 41^st street.” Amy slides those two off the ring.

Amy spins the numerous keys on the ring.

“What are these others to?”

“Hmm, they all go to something, Amy. Stop badgering me about my keys. What does it matter?”

“Keys should open something, Ma. If they don’t, you don’t need them.”

“Why do you care? My key ring isn’t bothering anyone but you. You make lists of everything and want to jam every object into a neat spot. These keys are in their spot. On. My. Key. Ring. Except for the two you removed.” Amy endured her mother’s glare.

**

Kyra stayed awake, holding the two keys Amy had removed.

One had a flag on the front - David had the locksmith duplicate the original onto that particular one; in his special way, he ensured I quickly saw our 41st Street house key on my key ring.

The day the mugger chased me in the unlit parking garage, I used that key to scratch his face as I screamed loudly, and he ran away.

Her fingers ran across the blue key that Amy had asked about. It was to the unattached garage side door. David had splashed it with blue paint to distinguish it from others the same size. That blue key had saved her life, but Amy didn’t know the story.

December 5th

David’s fiftieth birthday

Seven feet of snow

Negative three on the outdoor thermometer next to the back porch window.

Negotiating through deep snow that had fallen since the walk was shoveled, I had gone to the garage. My feet slipped on ice hidden under the new snow, and I went down so hard on my rear that it jarred me to my neck. I lay there for an interminable time, not able to move. Snow fell.

One minute passed.

Two minutes on the watch.

Three minutes. My face was numb; a swipe with my frozen coat sleeve didn’t help.

Four minutes. Thankfully, I wore thermal mittens!

Help!

Help!

Help!

I continued yelling until my throat was hoarse.

Fifteen minutes. I felt the key in my palm inside my mitten. I rolled slowly to my right side. The frigid temperature and cold ground had numbed the pain.

I could not sit up. I rolled.

First to my back.

And then to my left side.

Onto stomach. Damn, this ground is cold. I could barely breathe the frigid air. I had felt dampness on my neck from the moisture my breathing created.

Right side.

The door is closer now. “HELP!” I cried out.

Just one more circle. You can do it. I had to stay alert and focused.

On to my back again.

Onto my left.

Stomach. 

There we go. But, what now? I couldn’t stand; maybe had broken my tailbone. Something was wrong.

The key was getting cold inside the mitten. I knew the garage door was locked, but I had to get inside. Even unheated, it’d be out of the snow, with possibly something inside to help me. I just had to figure out how to unlock the door!

Rolling to my back again, I looked up at the keyhole. Groaning, I commanded my legs to bend so I could kneel. Excruciating pain shot up to my neck as my upper body fell against the door. At least I am at the door! I struggled to get the frozen glove off.

Finally, it came off, and I barely felt the key in my hand; it was so cold. As I tried to grab it with my fingers, the key slid into the snow, and I burst into tears. STOP IT, I screamed out loud. HELP!

I bent my stiffened knees, then leaned my upper body horizontally to the ground, reaching for the key with my bright pink, frigid fingers.

Even with the key in the lock, I couldn’t turn the key. Frozen! Which, key or lock? I put the key in my mouth, remembering tricks from the Arctic where I was raised. My teeth rattled against it, but I warmed it with my tongue, and the side door opened.

I fell inside the garage, stopping the fall by grabbing a shelf next to the door. There was only a slight difference in the temperature. I frantically scanned the dark garage, trying to find something to assist me.

There in the corner. David’s old cheerleading bullhorn was on his workbench. He liked to use it to yell at the neighbors as a joke.

“Thank you, God,” I whispered. Opening the door, I put the bullhorn to my lips and shouted, “HELP! HELP! KYRA IS FREEZING IN THE GARAGE AND INJURED. HELP ME!”

I yelled, facing straight, left, and then right.

Thomas, the young neighbor behind us, heard me and came running; he carried me into my house, phoning the medics and David.

Saved my life, this little blue key.

Kyra hung up, still holding the two keys. She got in her car and drove to the house on 41^st Street. She quietly went to the detached garage and peeked in a window. “Oh!” she said aloud, spotting the bullhorn through the window in the full moonlight. They kept it. She was surprised when the key worked. Kyra picked up the bullhorn and locked the door on her way out.

**

Kyra set a note on her desk:

Bury me with your dad’s old bullhorn and the flag and blue keys; all three kept me alive.