“Did she foresee it?” I snap. It’s the same question that I asked Piper, and I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“I recognized and accepted her gift.” She says nothing more.
When the silence lengthens into discomfort, I pour a second cup of coffee, for Mrs. Morden, and place myself directly in front of her, grasping for a simpler conversation. “I hope you don’t mind. I ate one of your cookies. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
Before, she would have laughed. She would have harrumphed. She would have commented on the forwardness of today’s youth and the negative influence of the outside world.
Now, she only shakes her head and accepts the mug in silence.
I want to ask her how she is, how business is, what all the latest Lost Creek gossip is, like Kyra always used to do when we would come for our mail. What comes out instead is, “Why won’t anyone speak to me?”
She starts at that, almost as surprised as I am. “You know how it is, dear. You’re an outsider. And Lost Creek does not take kindly to strangers.”
We Can Be Heroes
Two Years Before
“My mind is a stranger to me,” Kyra said. She had just come back from her session with Rowanne, and she exuded restless tension.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She closed my books, moved my homework to the side of the desk, and tossed me my coat. “Let’s go to the spa.”
I swallowed a flash of annoyance. We’d claimed the spa as our own last summer, when Kyra was traveling back and forth between Lost and Fairbanks for diagnostic appointments. Our parents had always told us that the building was too old and dangerous to be a playground, but it proved perfect as a hideout when Kyra didn’t want to face Lost’s questions and judgment.
That summer, she’d told me, “You know, this building would be a fantastic secret lair or superhero headquarters. Even with the work Aaron did to restore the rooms and windows, it still looks ancient and decrepit. It’s the perfect facade.”
“Will we be heroes then?” I’d asked.
“No, but we’ll be safe.”
But this day, she didn’t speak again until we had climbed through the spa’s kitchen window. She led me through the building to the bedrooms on the second floor. The rooms on the north side had narrow balconies, and one of them gave us a magnificent view of the green woods, the bright blue sky, and the snowcapped mountains in the distance.
Kyra pulled out the stash of chocolate we’d hidden under a loose floorboard. “Rowanne wants me to try mood stabilizers.”
I broke off a piece of chocolate. “For the mania?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you feel about that?”
She shrugged. “If it helps, I’ll do anything.”
I blundered into my next question. “Won’t you miss it? Not the depression, but the energy?”
On days when the manic episodes didn’t completely overwhelm her, they boosted her. She’d paint for hours. She’d do her homework in a hurry. She’d be intensely happy and up for any adventure.
On those days, we’d spend our time at the spa, and we were heroes. We’d make up the most outrageous stories and act them out. We’d go hunting for secret passages. We’d play hide and seek with shadows.
Those were good days.
“Who’s to say that’s my mania and not me?” Kyra asked.
I opened my mouth and closed it again.
“My mind is a stranger to me,” she repeated, harsher this time. “I can’t control what it does. I know I can’t change that, but I can try to find a better way to live with it.”
Conversations
I recoil. “I’m no more a stranger than you are, or than Kyra was, or anyone else. Lost Creek is our home.”
Mrs. Morden’s eyes flash at the mention of Kyra. “Perhaps it was once.” She places the dustcloth on the corner of the counter by the window and shakes her head. “Night and day don’t wait for us. You knew Lost as it used to be, but we’ve changed since you left. It’s not an accusation, simply a matter of fact. It is how it is, and so be it.”
So be it. Those words are beginning to sound like an echo. I wasn’t here. I should’ve been here. Mrs. Morden may not mean them as an accusation, but they certainly feel like one.
“It’s only been seven months,” I protest weakly.
“And lifetimes.”
“Then tell me how Lost has changed,” I demand, and to my horror, my voice cracks. I’ve never cried in front of anyone, except for Kyra. “Because my best friend is gone, and no one will even let me mourn. My best friend is gone, and all anyone can talk about are her paintings. I want to understand how she lived and how she died.”
“Do you really?” Mrs. Morden folds her hands together, and the gesture is so like my math teacher’s at St. James that I’m momentarily disoriented.
I nod.
“Kyra and Lost bonded over art. Kyra started drawing and painting more after you left. I’m sure you’ve seen her art around town. She found a way to express herself, which helped us all communicate. She started using the old spa as her studio.”
“Is that where she stayed then?”
“Kyra didn’t sleep out in the cold, if that’s what you’re asking,” Mrs. Morden snaps. “She stayed there. She had a comfortable room and lots of space to create. And you know how much she loved that building.”
I know that she went to the spa to escape, to find peace away from the town’s prying eyes.
“Kyra and I talked a lot. She was always curious to hear what Lost was like when I was your age because it was so different back then. We talked about the stories my grandfather told me, the stories her grandfather told her, and the gossip I heard from customers. She told me how she thought Lost would change—and grow.”
I nod. That I can imagine. Kyra always wanted to know the stories that shaped the people around her. She always wanted to understand why people were the way they were. Outside of her episodes, she thrived on company—and on their stories. Like here, the story of a haunted post office.
“The more time I spent with Kyra, the more I thought that she would’ve gotten along well with my late husband. Wilfred saw to the heart of people too, and they were both so easy to talk to. One day we talked about him for hours, and it almost felt like having him here with us. After all those years… It felt as if he were home. A few days later, Kyra had turned one of my old photos of Wilfred into a painting.” She nods at the wall. Kyra had made Mr. Morden look older and weathered, like his widow.
With her free hand, Mrs. Morden pulls a tissue from her sleeve and dabs at her eyes. “I never realized how talented she was until that moment. I never stopped mourning my husband, Corey, but because of her painting, I can imagine that he saw more of this world than he did. Her painting gives me peace.”
“I wish she’d gotten to see more of the world too,” I say.
“Corey?” A hint of urgency creeps into Mrs. Morden’s voice. “You mustn’t worry about her. We were here for her. We provided her with everything she needed. Lost doesn’t take well to change, but we learned to understand her. She was happy.”
“How can you possibly know that?” It takes everything I have to keep my voice even and calm. Kyra escaped to the spa when she didn’t feel comfortable in Lost. She painted when she couldn’t calm her mind. And she died.
“You two used to come here together. She didn’t stop coming after you moved away. We saw each other often, and she made new friends. After she moved into the spa, I went to visit her, at least once a week, and she’d come into town whenever she wanted.” Mrs. Morden reaches out and grabs my hand. Her fingers are stiff and cold. “Kyra found her connection to the people in town through her art. She listened to our requests and our petitions, and she painted dozens of illustrations for us. She spread happiness. Kyra finding a place here was a sign to all o
f us that Lost can change—and change for the better. After all those years, she’d finally come home to us, and we to her. She was at peace.”
“Then why did she take her own life?”
“Because no star can burn forever.”
I still have so many questions, but the one that tumbles out is, “Did she ever talk about me?”
Mrs. Morden smiles, even as her eyes become watery. She squeezes my hand as hard as her old muscles will let her. Then she goes to her desk and shuffles through the papers in her drawer. She produces a postcard, which she hands to me. Kyra’s telltale handwriting covers the back of it. “With every letter she sent out, dear, and the ones she didn’t,” Mrs. Morden said to me. “She talked about you whenever she could.”
The Choices We Make
Two Months Before
Noa barged into my dorm room without knocking and dumped the mail on my bed. “Can I borrow this issue when you’re done?” she asked, gesturing to my copy of World Soccer.
I glanced up from my physics homework. “Sure. If you want, you can read it first.”
“Nah.” She held up an armful of comics—the latest Ms. Marvel the only visible title. “Eloi provided me with plenty of reading. I’m good for now.”
I smirked. “My brother would get along so well with yours.”
“Next Family Day?”
“We should ask Eileen to introduce them to her tabletop game club. Luke would be all over that.”
Eileen appeared in the doorway. “Who would be all over what?” She spotted the mail delivery. “Ooh, you got the new World Soccer!” She fell onto my bed and started to read.
“We’re showing our geeky brothers around St. James on Family Day. You should take them along to Boarding Games,” Noa said. With no other place to sit, she leaned against my desk.
“So now I’m the resident nerd?” Eileen propped herself up on one elbow and pushed a black curl behind her ear.
“Nerd, scribbler, dorm grandma, decent midfielder.” Noa ticked off the list on her fingers.
“Dorm grandma?” Eileen sat up and her dark brown eyes flashed. “Excuse you, I’m six months younger than you are. I’m also a better player, and my writing happens to be art.”
With an inward smile and an outward sigh of resignation, I reached for my physics book. With the two of them in that mood, I knew I’d get nothing done.
At the sound of the book slamming shut, both Eileen and Noa looked at me, mischief in their eyes. They couldn’t be more dissimilar if they tried. Eileen was small and lanky, one of the few Black girls at St. James, and one of the most tactical players I knew. Noa, white and with long blond hair, was tall and broad, a strong striker whose physicality had helped our team on numerous occasions.
But despite their differences, their matching smiles were both aimed at me.
“Speaking of the beautiful game,” Eileen said, “we should go to the fields.” She got up and leaned theatrically toward me. “Coach brought Maddy along,” she mock-whispered, loudly enough for Noa to hear. “She’s home for a couple of days before her team’s midseason training retreat. She got picked to start varsity for her first game, so she’s now a very desirable collegiate athlete.” She drew out the last four words.
Noa blushed furiously and made an unconvincing excuse before bolting to change her clothes.
I grinned at Eileen. “You’re evil and I love it.”
“I know.” She picked up a letter from Kyra and handed it to me. “If you want to stay in and read first… Maddy will be here for a while. Plenty of time to bother Noa later.”
I accepted the letter and stared at Kyra’s looping handwriting. It was such a familiar sight, such a reminder of Lost. I wanted to know what she had to say, and I had so much to tell her too. I fit in here, Kyr. I have friends. Sports. Can you imagine, me, an athlete? I’m so different here.
I never knew how to start explaining that to her.
I opened my desk drawer and placed the letter on top of the stack of her other letters. Some opened, some unopened. All unanswered.
I bit my lip. “I’ll read it tonight.”
Eileen tilted her head. “Are you sure?”
“And miss those first awkward conversations? No chance.”
“C’mon then.” Eileen hooked her arm through mine and drew me out of the room. As always, her easy camaraderie felt both comforting and exhilarating.
I hadn’t kept Kyra a secret from the others on purpose; it just happened. I came to St. James thinking that I would be treated with the same hostility that Lost Creek shows newcomers, but the girls accepted me without question. It was easy to belong here. And I could start fresh, without the burden of who I was in Lost, where everyone knew me and had known me since birth. Everyone here was new, and every day felt like an adventure. I didn’t want to lose that high. So I let myself get swept away by life at St. James, with its clearer borders and softer rules. Far away from Kyra.
With a whisper of guilt, I closed the door behind me.
A New Lost
When I step out of the post office, I find that Lost Creek has come to life. The shadows in the windows are gone. People are walking into the grocery store and running errands. I push my hands into my pockets and head to the far side of the building.
A mural covers the entire wall, depicting the Alaskan landscape in the brightest spring colors. A brilliant red sun. Azure sky. Magenta flowers. Neon green pine trees. The Gates of the Arctic National Park, with its snowcapped peaks, is in the distance. A river of multicolored envelopes streams from the upper-right corner to the bottom left. The painting is quintessentially Kyra.
It must have taken her days, if not longer. There is so much detail, and the more I look, the more I see. Piper and Tobias, standing in front of their grandmother’s post office. A smiling Sam. Mrs. Robinson’s gardens. A brightly colored Lost. An airplane at the strip. But also fully functional mines, with tall machinery on the hillside, surrounded by acres of blackened, industrial land.
My heart pounds. With trembling fingers, I trace the footpaths to White Wolf Lake, where I find the shadow under the ice.
Everywhere I turn, Kyra has left signs pointing to her death, well before she died. She knew what was going to happen. She told everyone. And no one made a move to stop her. She foresaw, so they…let it happen?
I can’t bear to look at this mural any longer. I turn to the street. Lost Creek doesn’t have a church, but everyone looks as if they’re going to one anyway. On their parkas and winter coats, they all wear ribbons, the same black and magenta as the ribbons tied to their houses.
And their voices swirl around me.
You never cared enough.
You were never her friend.
The faces of friends morph into strangers and enemies. Why is my coming to say goodbye a bad thing? When did I become a threat? I don’t understand, but I shrink away all the same.
Tomorrow, they’ll pay their respects to a girl they never knew, a girl who somehow managed to find a central place in their lives.
Three men turn on to Main—Mr. H, Mr. Sarin, and Sheriff Flynn. None of them are dressed in black, but Mr. H wears his grief in the lines of his face and the hunch of his shoulders. Each has a salmonberry flower pinned to his coat. I shrink back into the shadows and listen as they pass by. They still talk about mining and investments and minerals, about renewing the future of Lost Creek, as a matter of prosperity.
And in the town where nothing ever changes, everything is changing.
It’s for the better, I can almost hear Mrs. Morden say. These changes give Lost a future. And she’s right.
New industry would mean a boost for everyone. The grocery store could expand. People could renovate instead of simply freshening their houses with paint, fixing broken roofs, putting away funds for hard times and once-faraway dreams.
But at what cost?
<
br /> This change would be as sudden as a thunderstorm, and in Alaska, thunderstorms are rare and violent.
I turn, and my gaze meets Sam Flynn’s. He leans against a building across the street, and he stares at me but makes no move to come closer. We were friendly, once. Not friends, exactly, but close nonetheless. Now…
Now I am lost too.
Happily Sometimes
Nine Months Before
We danced on the ice.
It was shortly before breakup in the spring, when the Lyrid meteor shower lit up the sky. I’d been tracking meteor predictions, and when I told Kyra the peak night for viewing was supposed to be almost moonless, she decided we needed a celebration. On the nights when she couldn’t paint and she wandered beyond the borders of Lost, she would gather flower petals to strew across town or try to build a bonfire to watch the fire dance. That night, she wanted to be the one dancing.
“The night is so dark,” she said. “What if there is no dawn, and winter never ends? I want to take advantage of each and every moment.”
“I think we can safely assume that the sun will rise in the morning, even if we don’t see it.”
The corner of her mouth crept up. “How can you know for sure?”
“I don’t. But science does. So I trust that it will. And besides, with the Lyrids tonight, the darker the night sky is, the better our chance of seeing shooting stars,” I told her.
So we sneaked out of the cabin when the Lyra constellation peeked out over the horizon, shortly before dawn, and walked onto the frozen surface of White Wolf Lake. I’d bundled up in my winter coat and extra scarves because the wind was fierce, but Kyra went out in a loose coat with pink flowers in her hair. The salmonberry bushes had started blossoming a few days ago, peeking out of the slowly melting snow, but where she’d picked fresh flowers in the middle of the night was beyond me. Wonder always followed Kyra like a curious pup, and I’d stopped questioning it long ago.
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