Before I Let Go

by Marieke Nijkamp

  And Kyra would hate me for it. Not only because the spa shaped Lost Creek, but because it holds so many stories. This building holds a history richer than the life of one person, even if that person was my best friend. I can’t touch that. I won’t touch that. But oh, how I wish I could.

  Instead, I find some of her paint brushes in her room. I cannot create like she did. I cannot tell stories. But I can retell her stories.

  So for the next few hours, I stand on a chair, and I use the darkest green paint to write on the walls in the entrance hall. My brushstrokes begin shakily, the letters not always clear. But Kyra’s voice is clear in my mind, and that’s all that matters.

  Let me tell you a story.

  There once was a girl who lived among candles and flowers and offerings. She did not belong in the world around her, but she belonged to the world. And when she tried to carve out her own space, the people came to her, for she knew their stories and their secrets.

  There once was a girl who was lonely. Because the people who sought her out would inevitably leave with everything she had to give them: her hope and love and promises.

  There once was a girl who was abandoned. These people gave her worth, but they used her, drained her dry, until she had nothing left to give. And then they deserted her.

  And the girl, who needed something to believe in too, was left with nothing.

  Let Me Tell You a Story

  Seven Months Before

  Once upon a time, two girls sat on the roof, watching the stars appear in the dim night sky. They each held bottles of lemonade, bars of chocolate, and unspoken questions.

  I was counting down the days until our big move to Winnipeg, and we’d crossed into single digits. I didn’t want to go. Kyra and I had so many plans, and the closer it came to my leaving, the more it felt as if I would be abandoning her, even if we stayed in touch. I was terrified our friendship would change. That we wouldn’t remember everything we’d been to each other. That the time we’d spent together hadn’t been enough.

  “Do you ever wonder about that day in the garden?” I asked softly. It had been a long time since that awkward kiss, a long time since I’d tried to fall in love with Kyra, and a long time since she had fallen out of love with me. But I needed to know if she accepted me. “Would it be easier if I were attracted to you?”

  Kyra took a sip of her lemonade and stared at the sky. It wasn’t quite summer yet, but the nights had been growing increasingly short and light. We wouldn’t see bright stars for months.

  “Easier? Maybe. Better? No. You are who you are, Cor, and I am who I am. I wouldn’t want either of us to change to be someone we’re not. We’d hate each other for it in the end.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why ask?”

  “Because…” I swallowed hard. I believed what I’d told her. That what mattered between us was our friendship. I’d seen other people’s crushes fizzle out, but our friendship had held strong. But soon there’d be nearly three thousand miles between us, and I didn’t know if friendship could survive that. “I’ll miss you.”

  “I know. I’ll miss you too, but we’ll keep in touch. I’ll write. I promise.”

  “When I come back during winter break, what will we do?”

  Kyra leaned back and rested her head against my shoulder. We fit together, as if we were two pieces of the same puzzle. “We’ll stay up all night and talk until the sun rises. We’ll hike in the woods and tell each other scary stories. We’ll go ice skating on White Wolf Lake. We’ll have seven months to catch up on, and we’ll do everything.”

  “Together?”

  “Together.”

  Stolen Time

  I sit at the edge of the hot springs. The steam from the water forms clouds around me, and while it doesn’t exactly keep me warm, it helps me not notice the cold. Or anything else, for that matter.

  I loved this place, and I still do. These forests and hot springs are part of who I am. I will miss the summer nights when sleep eluded me because the sky was too bright. I will miss the air here, both the sulfur smell of the hot springs and the cold, clean air of the surrounding hills.

  I will miss the Arctic. Kyra and I never did go to the Gates of the Arctic National Park, despite talking about it forever. I may not be as adventurous as Kyra was, but I would have loved climbing to a summit to stand on the roof of our world.

  I will miss being one of the only students in Lost to ever take an interest in physics; I remember how much that had pleasantly surprised our teacher. I will miss when we—all of Lost’s students, Kyra, Piper, and Sam included—would have class on the shore of the lake when the weather finally turned warm, and the nights when we sat around a campfire, eating marshmallows until our jaws hurt.

  I will miss our raggedy old house and my room, where I mapped the winter constellations on my ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stars. And Kyra’s little cabin with superheroes covering her door. And the little world we created for ourselves inside the small world of Lost, which was so separate from the overwhelmingly large world beyond.

  But we were never quite safe there—and it wasn’t only the rest of Lost that judged Kyra. It was me too. I thought I was a good friend to her, the best friend I could be. I thought life as we knew it was truth, instead of just another story we told. But maybe I never stopped telling stories either.

  • • •

  Kyra always said we all lived on stolen land. That this piece of Alaska was never rightfully ours. I never understood when she spoke of stolen land and stolen time.

  I do now.

  I will miss Lost. But I am taking my memories of Kyra with me—her laugh and the taste of her kiss and the warmth of her smile—and home will no longer be tied to this place.

  The Way the World Ends

  “Corey? Corey, where are you?”

  For a single, perfect moment, I’m convinced it’s Kyra calling me from beyond the springs. I answer as if it were. “Usual spot.” And my heart shatters.

  “Corey?” The voice sounds distant, and around me, the landscape is still. There’s no one here but a memory.

  I wrap my arms around my knees. I want to go home to Mom and Luke.

  I close my eyes and imagine Kyra appearing in the mist of the springs. I can almost see it. Her hair would be mussed and her glasses would immediately fog. She would settle next to me, take off her glasses, and clean them with the sleeve of her shirt, sticking out from under her parka.

  I’d reach out and squeeze her hand.

  You’re here, I’d say.

  I’m here, she’d answer.

  You promised to wait.

  I tried.

  I promised to come home to you. I should have come sooner. I promised to remember us. I forgot.

  Yes.

  Forgive me.

  But the fog obscures even this comfort from me. And a chill climbs up my spine. It’s still too quiet.

  Then comes her whisper. What’s wrong?

  I shake my head. I don’t know.

  The mist shifts and the shadows part. And Mr. Henderson stands in front of me, fury carved on his face.

  • • •

  Mr. Henderson towers over me. He’s always been a man of few words, a stoicism not shared by anyone else in the family, but his body speaks volumes now, as rage burns in his eyes and anger pulses along his jaw.

  “I want my daughter’s possessions back, Corey.”

  I scramble to my feet and step away from the hot spring.

  “You took her letter. You have no right to it. You have no right to ruin her words. You stole it. I could have you arrested for theft.”

  “You stole her letters from her. From me. She didn’t want you to have them.”

  Mr. Henderson takes another step closer and I take another step back.

  “You were a good girl, Corey, but I won’t let
you ruin my daughter’s legacy and run off with her memory. You do not understand how much Kyra mattered to Lost.”

  “Kyra was my best friend. I knew she mattered. You, on the other hand, never understood.”

  He lunges at me. I dodge as he reaches out to tackle me. Then I push. I’m not strong enough to floor him, but I throw him off balance for a moment. And I run.

  His footsteps pound close behind me, but I don’t look back. I dash into the building to take a shortcut to the woods.

  Inside, the entrance hall is unnaturally empty as I sprint through it. My bag is upstairs, but I don’t have time to grab it. I have Kyra’s notebook and her letters and my passport. That’s all that matters right now.

  I race down the spa’s service stairs and toward the kitchen. If I can get out through the window, I’ll have a clear escape through the woods, rather than being cornered by the springs. Mr. Henderson will never find me in the darkness, between the trees.

  I climb onto the counter and start to slide through the window when the shadows move again.

  There’s a reason I didn’t hear his footsteps in the house.

  Mr. Henderson is here, waiting for me.

  Endless Night

  I freeze. A cloud passes in front of the moon and we’re thrown into darkness.

  Mr. Henderson snarls. “You can’t outrun me, Corey. You have nowhere to go. Hand over Kyra’s letter, and you won’t get hurt. Kyra was my daughter, and her legacy belongs to me.”

  Kyra’s carefully crafted legacy.

  “You have no right to it,” I say.

  “This is Lost’s story, and we’ll tell it the way we see fit. She wanted to be here. She belonged here.”

  I’m trapped. My hand inches to the pocket that holds her notebook and letter. “You let her die.”

  Mr. Henderson’s smile turns into a grimace. “We fulfilled her prophecy.”

  Suddenly, someone rushes past me. Roshan launches himself at Mr. Henderson. They connect with an audible thud, and the momentum lands them both in the snow. Mr. Henderson’s large hands clamp down on Roshan’s arms.

  “Don’t! Kyra wouldn’t have wanted this,” Roshan pants. He holds on to Mr. Henderson and tries to wrestle him. Roshan is lanky and wired, but Mr. Henderson is bigger and stronger. He may not have Roshan’s flexibility, but he has more endurance and he is terrifyingly determined. “Kyra cared about Corey. She loved her. She wouldn’t want us to fight over some letters, not after everything she gave to Lost.”

  “Corey is not a part of our community,” Mr. Henderson seethes. “She’s an outsider.”

  “She was Kyra’s best friend,” Roshan says as I shout, “I’m not an outsider!”

  I start forward to help Roshan.

  His gaze snaps toward me and he shakes his head. Mr. Henderson uses the opportunity to push Roshan off him. Roshan gasps, but quickly gets back on his feet.

  “Corey, go!” His shout sets me in motion. Before I can see if Roshan manages to grab hold of Mr. Henderson again, I jump off the window ledge and into the snow. I head straight for the darkness of the trees.

  Endless Day

  I run into the dark, dark woods. Deeper and farther than I’ve gone before. I have to get away.

  I know I’m being followed. This forest has eyes. The trees are watching me. The wildlife is watching me. It’s dangerous here, but it’s far more dangerous at the spa and in town.

  He’ll never let me leave.

  I run until my legs become too heavy to lift and my sides ache. The ground slopes up. The moonlight doesn’t filter through the trees anymore. The snow is loose and tugging me down.

  Endless night.

  He’s coming for me.

  I stumble and get back up.

  I can’t see where I’m going.

  Even my arms are heavy now.

  Followed. Hunted. Terrified.

  My lungs burn like they’ll burst. I stumble into a small clearing and drop to my hands and knees. I gulp in the frosty air.

  The world spins around me.

  The moonlight reflects off the snow, and it’s as bright as the stars above, as bright as almost-day.

  Endless day.

  I don’t know where I am. This secret corner of the world. If I died here, no one would find me for weeks.

  Someone hums—or is it the wind?

  My vision turns upside down and I cough. Retch. Tears burn my eyes and my head pounds.

  I drop to the ground and roll onto my back. My breath comes in heaves. I pat my pocket to make sure Kyra’s notebook is still there. At least I’m not alone.

  No human will find me, but the wolves will. In that, I feel almost safe. I breathe. And find my peace in the stars.

  But a noise grows. Crunching. Swooshing. And Mr. Henderson comes crashing into the clearing with a dangerous hunger in his eyes and blood on his hands.

  Come to steal your soul away.

  Come to Steal Your Soul Away

  I scramble to my feet and scream. My voice carries, but there is no one except the two of us to hear it.

  Mr. Henderson advances on me.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I say. “They’re just letters. I’ll leave in the morning. I won’t be a threat to you anymore.”

  “You’ve always been a threat to us. To Kyra. You distracted her from her true purpose.” Mr. Henderson corners me, and all that’s left of him is anger—or maybe despair.

  “Mr. H. Please.”

  This man used to carry Kyra and me on his shoulders. He would find ways to talk to Kyra when no one else could, not even me. He would be away for weeks at a time, tending to his investments, but when he was home, he anchored Kyra’s world. She trusted him, and so did I.

  I try to crawl away, but he’s taller, stronger, faster.

  His hands clamp around my throat and I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe. I twist and claw and kick, the barely healed cuts from two nights ago opening up again, but Mr. Henderson does not relent.

  “No one will come looking for you here,” he says softly, increasing the pressure. Shadows creep into the edges of my vision. “I’ll make it look like an accident. It’s not difficult, you know. Plenty of places here where a girl could fall in the darkness. You could drown in the lake, and no one would be the wiser. They say it’s a peaceful death, drowning.”

  I ram my knee upward and he hisses when it connects with his groin. He stumbles, but he doesn’t let go.

  I can’t breathe.

  “You know, if your body were never found, there would be no crime. A tragic accident, at most. Plenty of animals roam these woods, even in the dead of winter. You would be nothing more than prey. Easy dinner for the wolves. And I’m sure they would appreciate it.”

  My vision goes black.

  “No one comes between me and my daughter.”

  And then I fade away.

  Saving the World

  I don’t see my life flash before my eyes. I don’t see stars. I don’t feel panic. What builds inside me is an unwavering determination. I refuse to accept this as the end.

  I. Refuse. To. Die.

  I arch back in the snow, and going on pure fear, I lash out again. I claw at Mr. Henderson’s face and at his hands. I kick him again, hard. My knee connects with his groin once more, and this time, he lets go.

  He curses, his voice raw.

  I drink in sweet, pure air. Everything hurts, breathing most of all. But I can’t soothe the pain or allow myself to give into it. I have to move.

  My eyes water and I scramble to put distance between us. I try to get to my feet, but my vision twists. I crawl.

  Mr. Henderson’s hand closes around my ankle. I open my mouth to scream—but all I manage is a dry sob.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “No.”

  I turn to face him
and stop.

  With one hand, Mr. Henderson holds my foot. With the other, he holds a knife. I recognize it from their kitchen. A boning knife, a carving knife, a chef’s knife.

  He holds the knife just above my bunny boot. If he pushes any harder, it’ll slide through fabric, skin, muscle. If I can’t stand or walk, I’ll freeze to death here.

  Oh God, he’s going to kill me. He’s really going to kill me. I can’t escape.

  “I didn’t want to do this, Corey,” he says slowly. “But I cannot let you leave. And blood will bring out the hunters.”

  Kyra used to tell me fables about wayward girls who wander into the woods and are dragged off by wolves, never to be seen again. They’re cautionary tales. But wolf attacks do happen, and Mr. Henderson wouldn’t even have to kill me himself. Leaving me wounded and bleeding would be enough.

  He traces the knife along the rim of my boot and I freeze midkick. I’m trapped.

  “Give me the letter, Corey.”

  A cloud passes over the moon, casting us into darkness. I claw at the snow. It gives me no traction.

  I lean into my anger instead.

  “She didn’t need you to protect her legacy. She needed you to protect her. Kyra. Her dreams. Her plans. Her future.” Antagonizing Mr. Henderson while he holds a knife is certain self-destruction. But I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. “She needed you to be her father.”

  He draws breath as if to speak, but I push on.

  “Do you even know what painting meant to her? It was her coping mechanism, not her passion. She needed therapy. She needed medication. She needed help. She deserved acceptance. Neither of us gave her that.”

  The words hit a nerve. The knife eases against my skin.

  “You don’t understand anything,” he snaps.

  “I understand enough.”