Before I Let Go

by Marieke Nijkamp

  I used to love that Lost is surrounded by nothing but nature for miles. It made us learn to be self-sufficient, self-reliant. Or so I thought.

  All I want now is a friend.

  I want Kyra to be here, to tell me, The shadows can’t harm you. They won’t hurt you. She was the storyteller of the two of us, and I am only weaving nightmares.

  She would tease me, make me laugh to stop the fear from settling in. She would stay with me while I’m too afraid to move. She would make me feel strong enough to leave this place.

  I miss her. And I want to go home.

  Outside, the dark blues of twilight grow lighter.

  I change into cleaner clothes—though everything of mine smells of smoke—and settle into one of the armchairs in the entryway. I have granola bars in my backpack. I have Kyra’s portable heater. I have air in my lungs.

  I’m not alone. Kyra’s paintings and sketches surround me, and I can’t stop leafing through them. Most are scenes I’ve never seen, of the private lives of the people of Lost. Some depict moments I’ve lived. Kyra and I skinny-dipping in the lake. Two little girls fishing, sitting side by side, arms around each other’s shoulders. And eventually, Kyra alone, in this very same chair, surrounded by paintings.

  I hug the papers close.

  The first colonial settlers in Lost found that winter is not malleable, and frost settles too, Kyra once told me. And no matter how hard they tried, they could not escape being lost… And they could not escape Lost.

  I always thought those were two separate things, but now I understand they’re really not.

  Night Swimming

  Three Years Before

  We slept, curled together on her bed. Or rather, she lay awake while I slept. Well past midnight, the mattress shook as she climbed over me, then left the room. I didn’t think anything of it and was fading back to sleep when I heard the door open and shut. Where is Kyra going?

  I wrapped myself in a coat, slipped on shoes, and followed her outside.

  The river had broken up a few weeks before, but snow still covered the ground, so I could easily trace her footprints. That was my first sign that something was wrong—it didn’t look like she was wearing shoes.

  I picked up my pace and ran after her, but she had a head start. And by the time I reached the shores of the lake, she’d already waded in.

  I screamed, “Kyra!” And again, “Help!”

  Up to her waist in the water, Kyra didn’t turn or acknowledge my presence.

  I discarded my coat and carefully walked in her direction. The edge of the lake was shallow and still frozen. The ice crackled under my weight, and the water that lapped at my feet was freezing.

  I screamed for help again, but Kyra had already pushed off into the deep end. She let herself float, surrounded by chunks of ice. “I want to go swimming, Cor,” she called.

  “Come back! You’ll die!”

  I waded in farther. Tendrils of cold curved around my calves, and I was shivering. I won’t be able to get to her in time, I panicked. I won’t be able to get to her in time.

  I needed help. And I didn’t want to leave her.

  But I made my way back to shore, picked up my coat from the snow, and ran to the nearest house to wake Lost.

  By the time Mr. Henderson, Sheriff Flynn, and Mom got Kyra out of the water, she was chilled to the bone and hovering on the brink of unconsciousness. Severe hypothermia. Dr. Stevens had her flown to the hospital in Fairbanks. Kyra had nearly died because she’d wanted to go swimming and I hadn’t been able to stop her.

  That was the first time someone mentioned mania.

  That summer, Kyra went for a walk in the woods and went missing for three days straight. The entire town mobilized to comb the woods to find her, and by the time we did, she was covered in dirt and had a deep gash along her arm.

  Then there was the time she fell off the spa’s roof while trying to fly and broke her ankle and her collarbone.

  And there was nothing I could do.

  Kyra’s hero days weren’t always heroic. Her highs boosted her, but they could hurt her as much as her lows did. She lost just as much of herself to them, and it took me far too long to see that.

  “Maybe that’s why I long for stories,” she confided in me, after she had to stop her first regimen of medication. The side effects had been plentiful, but without any of the benefits. She’d struggled with memory loss and constant nausea. “Stories remind me of heroes and possibilities. Stories remind me that I’m not the only one to deal with this. Stories make me feel less alone.”

  Testimony

  When I wake again, all I see is a glowing red through my eyelids. They slowly flutter open, and I startle, goose bumps flushing my arms. A flashlight. My heart races, but I’m too terrified to scream.

  Then the light lowers. Sheriff Flynn hovers a few feet away, flashlight in one hand, a paper bag and thermos in the other. I can’t tell if the fleeting look that crosses his features is one of relief or disappointment that I’m okay.

  My gut tells me to run, but where would I go? He stands between me and the doorway, and I can see the glint of his gun, holstered at his hip, as he sets the flashlight on the table beside him.

  “Corey,” he says gently.

  This is the voice of the Sheriff Flynn who checked on Luke and me when Mom was away for work. Who was Mom’s shoulder to lean on after Dad left five years ago. Still, Lost has threatened me, and he is part of that.

  “Corey,” he says again.

  I wrap my sweater tighter around me. “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to you about what happened last night. May I?” He gestures to the chair next to mine.

  I nod because I can’t really refuse. Sheriff Flynn looks like he hasn’t slept much either. Crime doesn’t usually keep him up at night, not in this town. We have nothing more to worry about than the occasional drunkard, the occasional bear, and Kyra’s manias. Now we don’t even have that.

  “Why are you here?” I try to keep my voice even, but it cracks around the edges.

  Sheriff Flynn pulls an end table between us and puts the bag on it, pulling out buttered rolls wrapped in paper napkins. The smell of freshly baked bread hangs in the damp air.

  My stomach growls.

  “We’ve gotten used to bringing over food.” Sheriff Flynn smiles, and with those few words, my appetite disappears. But my hands are shaking. I have to eat something.

  I bite my lip. “What happened last night, Sheriff?”

  “That’s what I came here to ask you. How are you, Corey?”

  I grab a roll and pick at it, breaking off small chunks of crust to nibble. “Scared.”

  Sheriff Flynn produces a notebook and scribbles something down. So much for empathy—he has a job to do. “Are you in pain?”

  “I’m not burned, but I inhaled a lot of smoke,” I say. As if my lungs want to prove it, I start coughing again. The memory of not being able to breathe is almost as potent as actual breathlessness. “Should I see a doctor?”

  “You should have been examined last night, but you disappeared before Dr. Stevens arrived.”

  Sheriff Flynn sounds apologetic, but what he’s saying is blatantly absurd. Dr. Stevens could’ve come for me at any point in the past several hours; it wouldn’t have been hard to track me. But I nod because it still hurts to breathe and I’m too tired to argue.

  “She would like you to come in. I’ll walk you there after our talk.”

  “What happened to Kyra’s cabin, Sheriff?”

  “The fire was contained, so it didn’t spread to the main house or any of the surrounding structures. The guest room and Kyra’s room were completely destroyed, unfortunately.” His words are cold. Emotionless.

  “I was inside. I could’ve died.” Saying it out loud makes my hands tremble so hard I have to ball my fingers in
to fists so the sheriff won’t notice. My sliced palm burns.

  Sheriff Flynn doesn’t even look up from his notes.

  “Do you know what caused the fire?” I ask. This town has now burned down the two places I considered home. Was that foretold too? I want to ask.

  He shakes his head. “I’m no forensic expert when it comes to fires, so I can’t give you a definitive answer, but we’ve seen this before, Corey. Space heaters that overheat. Electrical malfunctions. It was likely an accident, nothing more.”

  “Like Kyra,” I mutter. The town may not want to murder me, but they’re certainly not above an intentional mishap.

  At this, Sheriff Flynn looks up from his notebook. “Excuse me?”

  I wince, and he continues. “It’s lucky you discovered the fire as soon as you did.” His voice sounds flat. Maybe he thinks it would’ve been luckier still if people in town had found a way to stop me from asking my nosy questions.

  “Can I get out of here?” I keep my voice flat too, but inside I’m trembling. “I want to go home to my family.”

  “Joe called the airline, but the next plane that will route through Lost is the one you’ve already booked your flight on. You can wait in town or here, if you’d prefer.”

  “I’ll stay here.” I don’t have to think about that.

  Sheriff Flynn nods, clearly not surprised. “We’ll make sure you have food, of course. Do you have everything else you need? Blankets, heater?”

  “I’m fine.” I may not be comfortable using Kyra’s things, but I’m even less comfortable accepting help from Lost. At least Kyra never wished me harm.

  I pick up another roll, and although I don’t have a taste for it, eating keeps my hands busy. “Has anyone called my mom to tell her what happened?”

  The mood in the room shifts. “Did you not call her? As far as I know, no one else has been in contact with her. She hasn’t called me.”

  He cocks his head with a glint in his eyes, and for a second, he reminds me of a hawk, or a vulture. And I’m the prey. There would be no witnesses if I died or disappeared. The town would get what it wanted.

  I put the roll down on a napkin and brush the crumbs from my hands. “No, sorry. She expects to hear from me. I promised to call each day.”

  I don’t know if I’m convincing, but I don’t think he’ll call my bluff. I don’t know what will happen if I stay here until my flight. But maybe that will be the safety I need until then. I still don’t know Kyra’s side of the story—and part of me is still waiting for the clues that will help her tell it.

  I cannot abandon my friend again.

  I set my jaw. “Tell me, Sheriff. Am I in danger here?”

  “Why would you think that? Of course not. As I said, the fire was an accident. Regrettable, but nothing more. We’ll provide for you until you leave.”

  I can’t sit through any more of these lies. I stand and flip through some of Kyra’s sketches that cover the big table, then pick up a sketch of the sheriff’s son smiling and flash it at him. “How is Sam?” I narrow my eyes and find a painting of the mines. “How is business in Lost?”

  The temperature drops noticeably, and it wasn’t warm to begin with. I shiver, but I stare down the sheriff. I almost died.

  Sheriff Flynn closes his notebook. “Why are you are unwilling to let this go, Corey?”

  He stands and pulls on his coat, sliding his notebook and pen inside his breast pocket, but he leaves the bag of food and the thermos.

  “Walk with me. I’ll show you to Dr. Stevens,” he says, his words measured. “And after that, stick to the spa. You’re not one of us anymore.”

  I can’t tell if he’s angry or defeated, but right then and there, I don’t care.

  He’s right. I’m not one of them anymore, and that’s almost a relief.

  A Cure for All Ills

  Sheriff Flynn leads me through town in silence. I’m sure everyone knows about the fire, but no one cares enough to ask if I’m all right. People stare at me. They whisper. Mr. Lucas touches the magenta flower he’s still wearing, and his lips move silently, as if in prayer, when he sees me.

  Is this what it was like for Kyra all those years? They feared her because she was different. They saw her as less because she was ill. Suddenly appreciating her art does not clear the stain of their silence. Especially if they never acknowledged her for who she was as a person.

  We were here when it mattered most, Piper said at the memorial.

  But she’s wrong. They were there for Kyra when it was profitable for them and they had something to gain. If they’d been there for her when it mattered, they’d have been with her long before she ventured out onto the ice. They would have been there when she struggled to adjust to new medication. When she cried herself to exhaustion because she hadn’t slept in days. When she was too scared to talk about the future because she was convinced she’d never escape the darkness—never escape Lost.

  If the people of Lost had been with Kyra when it mattered most, they would’ve been there for her on those days between mania and depression, when she could step away from her art and her fear. They would’ve talked to her, they would’ve cared for her, not as the beneficent, bipolar daughter of the Hendersons, but as Kyra, one of their own.

  That’s when it mattered most.

  They weren’t here when it mattered most.

  But I can’t help but think that neither was I. If I had been with Kyra when it mattered, I would’ve called, answered her letters. I would’ve been a safe haven when Lost turned her into a prophet, and I would’ve found a way to get her out. I would not be trying to understand how she died.

  If any of us had been here when it mattered most, she would still be alive.

  • • •

  Sheriff Flynn leaves me on my own at Dr. Stevens’s house, but despite her insistence that I come see her, she is out, according to her assistant, Meghan. Meghan can only give me vague estimates and water and aspirin for the headache that’s taken up residence behind my eyes. From oxygen deprivation, maybe? Or anger?

  “I’m sorry I can’t do more for you,” she says, while she sorts through medical charts, filing paperwork. She moves them from one stack to another, slowly, methodically. “You’re welcome to wait.” With a large manila envelope, she gestures at the double bench that functions as a waiting room.

  “You don’t know how much longer Dr. Stevens will be?”

  “No. It may be a while.”

  Her tone reminds me of the one I used with Sheriff Flynn when I mentioned calling my mother this morning, and I’m almost certain that she’s lying. Maybe Dr. Stevens is only out for an errand. Maybe, despite what Meghan says, she’s in the building, though it’s hard to imagine Dr. Stevens sitting on the other side of the door, waiting for me to walk out. I’ve always known her as helpful and caring. But I can’t be sure if I’m safe to leave. I don’t want to risk my health.

  “It’s okay.” I shake my head. “Thanks for the painkillers.”

  I place the empty glass on Meghan’s desk. She casually drops a magenta flower into it.

  I shiver. It makes no sense to bring me back to town, only to make me hang out in a waiting room—unless Sheriff Flynn, or any of the others, wanted me out of the spa.

  Meghan smiles a crooked smile, and I think of the few times Mom brought me here. When I had bronchitis, Meghan brewed me tea with honey to help soothe my throat. When I was seven and sprained my ankle running with Kyra, she told me bad jokes to distract me from the pain.

  But now she’s silent as I wait. And wait.

  Meghan is still stacking and restacking folders, what feels like an hour later. It’s an endless process, and I don’t see how she’s changing anything. She’s just keeping busy and humming quietly to herself.

  Finally, I give up and walk toward the door.

  “Maybe you should spend some time
at the hot springs,” she suggests without looking up. “They are said to cure all ills.” Then she resumes her humming, though louder.

  Behind Meghan hangs a sketch that shows her alongside her two sons, both of whom left Lost years ago.

  I laugh, and it’s painful in my lungs, but I can’t stop. At least not until I’m outside and sobs overtake my laughter. Her humming echoes in my ears. It’s the song I first heard at the airport. The song that now floats in the air all around me.

  Come to steal your soul away.

  Fear about Town

  EXT. LOST CREEK—MAIN STREET—END OF DAY

  Corey walks through Lost at a brisk pace, while everyone stares silently at her. The whole town falls still.

  Corey (frustrated with the lack of help, in pain, to no one in particular):

  Is this how you treat each other? Kyra was no oracle. She was sick, and she needed help. Does no one understand that?

  Someone, out of sight, begins to hum. It’s the same song Corey hears everywhere, and it has an ominous tone. It’s loud, as if the sound comes from the stones and the trees around her, not just from the people of Lost.

  Tobias barrels into Corey on the street. She stumbles. He doesn’t turn or apologize. He keeps walking.

  Along Main, Corey sees Mr. Henderson and Sheriff Flynn at the edge of town. They’re deep in conversation. She can see their mouths move, but she can’t hear them.

  Piper

  Corey?

  Corey turns to find Piper staring at her from across the street. Mud from Mrs. Robinson’s garden covers her clothes and her hair. She glances up and down the street, then walks over at a brisk pace.

  Piper (reaching out to touch Corey’s arm):

  I saw you stumble. Are you okay?

  Corey

  No.

  She turns away from Piper, but Piper pulls her back. She is gentle, but insistent.

  Piper

  We’re all afraid in our own way.