Before I Let Go

by Marieke Nijkamp

  A Shrine of Blossoms

  I pause at the bottom of the stairs and reach for the closest petals. The flowers that appeared in my bedroom were soft, almost like silk. These petals crumble between my fingers.

  It’s like this place is suspended in time, untouched since Kyra left it, or perhaps longer than that. It seems so fragile that a whisper could bring it down. It’s not a chapel, but a house of cards.

  I touch one of the ribbons the same way Piper did when I first arrived. Reverently.

  On the mantel, there are more salmonberry blossoms in different shapes and forms. Some are dried flowers, others are painted onto the marble, even crocheted from yarn. A small brown bottle with a cork sits among the flowers. Salmonberry perfume? I don’t smell it. It’s hard enough to breathe.

  Scattered between the flowers—real flowers, fake flowers—lie bits of burned paper. Some still bear the faint traces of words. Please. I implore you. Help me. None of them are in Kyra’s handwriting.

  It’s as if the distorted focus of these last two days shifts—and clears.

  She foresaw. She foretold.

  Lost didn’t just assign meaning to Kyra’s paintings, they made requests of her. They placed her in this house of pilgrimage and, by the looks of all the offerings, revered her.

  We found meaning together, Sheriff Flynn told me. I’d assumed he meant Kyra and the town had found a way to understand each other. But now I can’t help but wonder if he meant the town had found a purpose for Kyra, a meaning for the girl they’d decided was meaningless after she was diagnosed.

  Corey?

  I turn toward the whisper, but the room is empty. All I can hear is the pounding of my own heart.

  I walk toward the large table and carefully open one of the sketchbooks. A saucer with dried ink stands next to it. Neither disappear when I touch them, although it wouldn’t have surprised me if they had. This place seems enchanted.

  The sketchbook is filled with inked drawings. In fact, all the sketchbooks are. They’re rougher and courser than Kyra’s paintings, with haphazard colors and harsh pen strokes. Flowers. Mountains. Faces. Some I recognize, some I don’t. The spa. The hot springs. White Wolf Lake, this time—thank goodness—without Kyra in it.

  When I flip to the final page of one of the sketchbooks, I pause. The drawing is coarse, the ink blotched. But I recognize myself, and the charred skeleton of my house in front of me. The scene is exactly as it was last night, as if she had been present to observe me.

  We bonded over art.

  I’ve only been gone for seven months, and Kyra only used to paint to burn off the energy of her manic episodes. But judging by the evidence around town, Kyra had painted enough to last a lifetime.

  No star can burn forever, they said.

  Kyra burned so brightly. Until she had nothing left to give.

  I’m surrounded by countless paintings, but where are Kyra’s books? Her stories? Her studies?

  The only words here are questions, pleas.

  And whispers.

  Corey?

  Keeper of the Spa

  Aaron stands in the doorway. Although he’s over seventy years old, he’s a tall, imposing man who worked in one of Mr. H’s mines before the town asked him to become keeper of the spa, to mind the monumental building, to keep the wildlife out and the hot springs clean. His hair and skin have gone gray, but his arms and shoulders are still broad, and he always appears to squint in the light.

  “Corey? Are you okay?”

  I don’t know what to say. I sit down at the bottom of the stairs. There’s so much to take in. More flowers. More notes—or are they prayers?—from visitors. Black ribbons woven through the banister and the balustrade.

  I gesture around me. “I wanted to see where Kyra had been living. But this… All of this…”

  Aaron’s gaze strays behind me. His mouth sets. “It’s overwhelming, isn’t it? The last few days, people have been visiting to pay their respects and to remember her.”

  “And before that? This is from more than a few days.”

  He nods. “Before that too.”

  A thousand questions tumble through my mind. How long did Kyra live here? Was she on her own? Why was she here and not in Fairbanks? Why didn’t she get help? “What happened?”

  Aaron’s gaze strays past my shoulder again, as if someone were there, observing our conversation. It’s unnerving. He shakes his head as he comes over and sits down on the step next to me, elbows on knees. “Kyra was a good girl,” he says. “She should’ve had a long life ahead of her. But no one in Lost wished her any harm.”

  I want to object, but he shakes his head.

  “I know it wasn’t always like that, kid.” His grimace softens to a smile. “Lost and Kyra learned to understand each other. They came to her, and they came to care for her too. I wish you’d been here to see it.”

  “They came to her with prayers and requests? She was bipolar, not a prophet.”

  My throat burns and my hands clench, wanting to hit something. I laugh because it’s the only thing I can do. Kyra once told me about Sága, a protector in Norse mythology. A storyteller. A seeress. A goddess.

  My voice is tight when I say, “What did you all turn Kyra into? A miracle? An oracle? What do you want to call her?”

  He shakes his head at my outburst. “I’m not comfortable with those titles. But whether it was through art or observations, she brought wonder to Lost Creek. And with it, a future. Can you imagine? She painted a bright, prosperous town and the next thing we know, investors show up. This town has struggled against the elements for so long, but now it has hope again. Kyra brought that future to us. She changed us.”

  I blink. I try to wrap my mind around his words. “How?”

  “She saw a future that none of us could see yet. She believed in a future, and for that, we believed in her.”

  Four words, but they carry the weight of lifetimes. We believed in her.

  “She was a bright star, and she burned herself out. All we have left is the truth, and maybe that’s nothing more than a story too.” He shakes his head. “You know how much she liked stories.”

  I laugh again, and it comes out bitter and broken. This room is too small. The air is too stale. Kyra’s art is everywhere, but none of her books. “This wasn’t her story.”

  “Sorry?”

  I shake my head. “Did she like being here?” I ask. “Was it her choice?”

  Aaron gets to his feet and brushes off his pants. Again, he glances behind me, and he hesitates before giving me a forced smile. “Of course she did. She belonged here.”

  Writing on the Wall

  Aaron doesn’t want to leave me on my own, but when I tell him I need a moment to myself, he gives me that time. I grab the drawings Kyra made of me and stuff them in my pocket.

  Lost Creek is full of stories too, Kyra had said. Stories of love and secrets. Of friendship and survival. Of hate.

  I can’t breathe. I want to scream. I want to claw through my skin.

  And I need to get out, out, out. Away from this shrine. Three steps at a time, I bound up the stairs. Outside, a storm cloud must pass by, because the little sunlight that filters in through the windows disappears. I’m suddenly surrounded by shadows.

  When light seeps in again, it’s different, dimmer.

  I sink against the wall and wrap my arms around my knees because it’s the only way I can keep from shaking. I catch my breath. The second floor is grayer, the air is colder, and I gulp.

  What did they do to her?

  What did they do to her?

  What did we do to her?

  I can’t stop trembling, but I need to find more signs of Kyra’s life here.

  But the second floor, which consists primarily of bedrooms that were used when the spa was still a tourist attraction, is mostly empty. Aside fro
m a few footsteps in the dust, it’s largely untouched. I zigzag my way through the two wings of the building, until I reach the last room in the east wing.

  The door stands slightly ajar, and inside, I see a flash of color.

  A bright blue sleeping bag sits on top of an old bed. A portable radiator stands at the foot of the bed, and at the head is a bedside table with a lamp and a book on it.

  The book is in my hands and clutched to my chest before I’m aware of what I’m doing.

  Oral Tradition and Storytelling in the Arctic. Kyra read this book until it started to fall apart. I almost laugh out loud. Nerd. My loveable, weird best friend. This was the Kyra I knew.

  I sit on the bed, and my vision blurs. She was here.

  The room wouldn’t be remarkable but for the fact Kyra stayed here. The bedside lamp switches on and off—apparently Aaron fixed the generator. A bundle of purple cloth lies next to the pillow. I pick it up and unfold it. It’s a scarf with subtle threads of silver and tiny stars sewn onto it. They follow constellations. The Big Dipper. Cassiopeia. Cygnus—the swan. Lyra. Orion. The stars we saw together.

  I gave this scarf to Kyra for her seventeenth birthday, almost a year ago. When Mom accepted her new job, Kyra held me close, wrapped the scarf around us, and reminded me we’d still be under the same night sky.

  I bring the scarf to my face and inhale. There is no trace of her. My hands thump back into my lap as I take in the rest of the room.

  The walls are covered with writing. It’s the same phrase, repeated over and over again.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

  Now nothing can stop my shaking. I stand, clinging tightly to the scarf, and move from one wall to the other.

  I can’t stay.

  It’s everywhere, on all the walls. Scrawled in pencil and pen, in blue and black and the bloodiest red. All in Kyra’s distinctive script.

  Then above the door:

  They’re watching. The shadows, Corey. They’re always watching.

  I want to reach up and trace my name, but it’s too high. Higher still, in the farthest corner, more scribbles:

  Don’t go.

  Nightmares

  Eight Months Before

  We spent lengthening early summer nights at the spa, when it was still light enough for Kyra and me to walk home, no matter the hour. We lay on the roof, staring up at the midnight sun, shoulder to shoulder.

  “I hate summer,” Kyra said. “The light goes on forever, and my thoughts won’t stop. I can’t breathe here.”

  I threaded my fingers through hers. “Winter will come soon, and the nights will be darker again.”

  “Not soon enough.” She sighed. “Besides, you’re scared of the dark.”

  “I don’t like shadows. I don’t like not being able to see. I am not scared of the dark.”

  She smiled. “Liar. You’re terrified of night, which seems rather irrational for an aspiring astronomer. But I’ll stand beside you. I’ll face the shadows with you.”

  “I’m not scared,” I lied. But I was. Scared of the darkness, of the nights, ever since Dad left. Scared of waking up in the morning to discover another part of our family missing.

  “It’s okay if you are.” She muttered something else but so quietly that I couldn’t hear it. I could guess though. I was terrified of her nights too.

  I clung to her hand. “What if we can’t build a life outside of Lost, even with Mom’s new job?”

  She smiled. “You can always come back to me.” With her free hand, she brushed a twig out of my hair. “I’m scared too.”

  I shifted so I could look at her.

  She didn’t speak for the longest time. “It scares me to think that my episodes will overtake me, that I’ll lose myself completely. It scares me to think that one day, I’ll see myself the way Lost sees me. That I won’t be enough.”

  I hesitated and in that moment, Kyra tried to pull away from me. I held on tight. Kyra was always so full of life and wonder that I couldn’t imagine her losing that. I didn’t want to. “If that ever happens, I’ll come back for you. I’ll stand beside you. I’ll face the shadows with you,” I said. “But you’ll tell me, won’t you?”

  She squeezed my hand, her thumb rubbing my palm. “I will always tell you everything. I promise.”

  I leaned back against the shingles. “You matter, Kyr. To me. To your family. To Lost, even if they don’t always understand you.”

  “Then why don’t I feel like I’m enough? Why does trying to fit in hurt so much? I can’t always be there for you, and it feels like I keep disappointing you—keep scaring you away.”

  “You don’t. Don’t even think that.” I blinked back tears I didn’t want her to see, but I couldn’t keep them from my voice. I propped myself up on one elbow. “We’ll always be here for each other. And you should never settle for enough.”

  She buried her head against my shoulder, and in that embrace I could feel all of her pain. I held her. She shivered, and I cradled her closer. Kyra’s sorrow left me empty, and I didn’t know how to relieve it. But together we held our darkness up to the light, and it became easier to carry because we were not alone.

  The Way the World Changes

  I spent more time at the spa than I’d anticipated, and the sun has reached its highest point in the sky when I start back to town. Two lone figures walk back from the lake. I recognize Piper’s silhouette, but I can’t tell who the other person is until he looks up, and I see that it’s Sam. Sam Flynn. The boy who never spoke and never smiled is now trading gibes and grinning at Piper.

  Piper laughs.

  Then Sam spots me. He points and says something, but I look away before Piper responds. I keep my head down as I walk back to Main. I pass two young girls having a snowball fight in their yard. Their squeals sound out of place, but they draw a smile from me nonetheless. It’s the first time I’ve heard children laugh since I arrived.

  “Corey!” Piper calls from behind me.

  I stuff my hands deep into my pockets and pretend I don’t hear. I don’t want to deal with her hypocrisy right now.

  But this is one of the downsides of a town the size of Lost; everyone can find anyone here if they want to. I used to think that was an upside. I felt like it was impossible to feel lost here—or to lose yourself.

  “Corey.” Piper’s voice sounds a lot closer now, and I can’t avoid her any longer.

  I stop, but I don’t turn.

  She catches up with me and drags me to a corner, away from the road. She’s pale and the circles under her eyes are dark. “How are you?”

  I’ve had enough. I can’t play this game anymore. “I went to the spa.”

  “And did you get the answers you were looking for?” she asks, although I’m quite sure she already knows.

  “None at all.”

  Piper shakes her head and lets go of my arm. She looks genuinely disappointed, but she doesn’t hold back. “You come barging in to investigate a murder that never happened. You come to tell us all that we did wrong when you weren’t even here. You don’t understand how much Kyra meant to this town.”

  “Is that why you kept her locked away in a ruined building? An artist, whose only job it was to produce? Did her meaning come from serving as Lost’s own private oracle? Or did you actually see her as a member of this community?”

  “Her art mattered.”

  “Her art was hardly the most important thing about her. She didn’t even care about it.”

  “She loved her life in Lost Creek.”

  “And when she started painting her own death, you all didn’t mind fulfilling her prophecies?”

  Piper stills. “Kyra held this town together with her art. She was the example by which we took our inspiration—in her life, but also in her death. Kyra would’ve told
you that the most important part of any story is the way it ends. We will remember her.”

  “Her death was an inspiration?”

  Piper narrows her eyes. “That’s an ugly way of putting it.”

  “It’s an ugly sentiment.”

  “She pulled Lost together.”

  “And she shouldn’t have had to die to do so.”

  If there’s such a thing as a townwide, collective intake of breath, this may be it. Outside the post office, Mrs. Morden and old Mr. Wilde turn and stare. From a distance, Sam does too. Every single person out on the street stops, turns, stares.

  Piper laughs. “Be careful, Corey. You still don’t understand.”

  Do You Understand Now?

  Ext. Lost—Main—Afternoon

  Corey continues toward the Hendersons’ house. She fumbles with her phone. Piper and Sam walk away, but everyone else in her path remains, frozen like set pieces.

  Two young girls stand in the middle of their yard. Each holds a snowball, but they do not play.

  Girl #1:

  Do you understand now?

  Girl #2

  Let me tell you a story.

  Tobias Morden leans against a wall.

  Tobias

  Do you understand now, Corey?

  Mrs. Morden

  Let me tell you a story.

  Corey ducks her head and refuses to acknowledge anyone. She picks up her pace. She doesn’t see Roshan, who trails behind her, keeping an eye on all the townspeople.

  Roshan

  Do you understand?

  Through the windows of every house that Corey passes, she sees Kyra’s artwork. Simple paintings of families gathered together, of refurbished homes, of travel and riches. Paintings of carefully constructed happiness.

  Phone Call

  “Do you think it was more than suicide?”

  “I really don’t know, E. They turned her into an icon. They forgot that she was a person. They believed in a lie, but I never thought that was enough to kill someone.”