In the distance, Roshan, who had started to make his way toward Corey, observes the conversation with a frown. With Piper around, he pushes his hands deep into his pockets and stalks away.
It begins to snow.
Empty Rooms, Lost Words
I would run back to the hot springs if I could breathe properly. Instead, I walk as fast as I can.
The falling snow is creating a thick, new carpet. When I enter the spa, I stomp my boots before closing the door behind me. I stare. The grand entrance is empty. The hall that resembled a shrine when I left a few hours ago is now nothing more than a hall. There are no paintings, no sketches, no candles, no salmonberry blossoms. The chairs and table still stand around the hearth, but that’s all that remains.
A thin layer of dust coats the hard surfaces, which makes it look like no one has been here for months.
What happened while I was gone? Am I hallucinating this? Is it a side effect of smoke inhalation?
I draw lines on the table, and my fingers come back dusty. It’s as if Kyra had never been here.
Far behind me, faint giggles echo through the building.
If someone was here, are they still here now?
If I’m going to survive two more nights in this place, I need to know I’m the only one in the spa. Even if that means checking every single room. So I start at the large reception area at the side of the entrance. This way no one can sneak up on me from rooms I haven’t cleared, and I can bolt if there is danger. No one will be between me and the exit. Though where I would go if I had to escape, I don’t know.
In the dining room, fresh salmonberry flowers are spread out over every windowsill. Dust reveals half-disappeared footprints on the floor. I seem to be alone, but what am I supposed to make of this?
I work my way through the old building. Most of the rooms remain untouched, exactly as I remember them from all my visits with Kyra.
But some of the rooms still bear witness to Kyra’s presence. The walls in the room where Kyra slept are still covered with her writing. And in this brighter light, I can see that other rooms in this wing harbor Kyra’s writing too. In the room next door:
They’re watching. They’re watching. They’re always watching.
And in the corner:
Even the walls have eyes.
In the next room, it’s one word. Over and over again.
Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.
Down the hall, the writing becomes mostly endless loops, like when we practiced cursive writing in school. Based on the different colors of ink, and the way some of the lines fade, she must have made her way through half a dozen pens, and it’s a lonely sight. Then, around the doorway:
Come get me, please. Or I’ll come to you.
In the last room, the walls are bare, except for two scrawled words, large and frantic:
Mom. Please.
I have to stop. The weight of Kyra’s unanswered pleas is crushing me. I sit down in the middle of the otherwise empty space. The floorboards creak. I put my head in my hands.
And I break.
I hurt more fiercely than I ever have before. And I cry. I cry for the girl I used to know, who turned this rotten building into her superhero headquarters and tried to help a world that didn’t want to help her.
I cry for the girl I used to know, who kept my heart in the palm of her hands.
I cry for the girl I used to know, who hated to paint and spent the last months of her life in a space filled with her paintings.
But most of all, I cry for the girl who used to be my world, who deserved to have the galaxy at her feet.
I would give up every single star in the night sky to have another day with her.
Dear Diary
She won’t come back. She won’t come back. She’ll never come back.
I replay the same scenarios in my mind: Kyra in her room, writing on the walls. Kyra in the hall, accepting food and flowers from her petitioners. Painting to cope.
Kyra, alone.
Kyra, writing me letters. I still have unanswered letters at St. James and back at Mom’s house. I still have so many things I should have written her, but I never did. I never even said goodbye.
The flood of tears leaves me empty and spent. My shoulders and neck ache from crying. My eyes burn. I don’t know how to go on from here.
Restless energy overtakes me. I can’t sit still.
I scramble to my feet and wander along the other rooms on this floor, but they’re all empty, the only color on the walls that of half-torn wallpaper. I explore the wing where my own room is and find nothing.
In the other wing, the rooms are dustiest. No words. No signs of life. I came here yesterday hoping to miraculously find Kyra. Now, I open every door with the expectation that it will be empty. She’ll never come back.
Until I find myself on the north side of the building. We’re safe here, Kyra told me, the very first time we dared to venture to the spa on our own.
I push open the door and it squeaks in its hinges.
Gray light filters into the room through the window and French doors, which lead out to a balcony. Shadows dance on the walls. And the floor is covered with footprints.
I kneel down and trace one. Kyra.
How has it only been a week since she died? It feels like I lost her long before then. Maybe I did.
The footprints go back and forth between the door to the hallway and the doors to the balcony. I pull the sleeves of my knit sweater over my hands and push out to the balcony.
A layer of snow blankets it. The metal railing that surrounds it is cold through my sleeves, and the wind bites. The snow keeps falling, fresh and thick, covering everything around me.
From here, Kyra and I had the best view of the hot springs and the surrounding woods. In daylight, you can see the snowcapped peaks in the distance. Now, the mountains are shapeless shadows in the slate gray sky. I turn west, to try to make out Lost Creek, but all I see is the end of a broken road that leads from the spa to the town.
Did Kyra sit up here and watch the townspeople approach the spa? Did she dread it, when she saw them? Did she try to escape?
I rub at my eyes and stumble back into the room, pulling hard on the doors to close them. As I start to leave, I remember the loose floorboard where we used to keep our stash of chocolate. I wrench it away and feel around underneath it. At first, there’s nothing but splinters. When I push a little deeper, I feel something soft and smooth. I angle my hand to get a better hold and pull out a small leather-bound notebook. The blue cover and the edges of the pages are stained, and when I flick through it, most have been torn from the spine. But all the pages that are left are filled from margin to margin.
Letter from Kyra to Corey
unsent
Dear Corey,
I moved to the spa. I claimed one of the upstairs bedrooms. It’s dank and more than a little dusty, but I brought my notebooks and pens, and Mom will bring me my books.
The spa feels like a haven—or a headquarters. Lost has changed so much these last couple of months, you probably wouldn’t recognize it if you were here. I’m not sure if I recognize it. Or if I recognize myself.
The townspeople though, they see me now. Not just my parents and Aaron and Mrs. Robinson, but all of them. They don’t scorn me with their sideways glances. They see me. They see me.
I can be useful to them. I can paint the scenes they want to see. I can create a way to belong here.
It’s a sun-bright hero day, and the night feels far away and distant. I feel alive.
I wish you could see me like this.
Letter from Kyra to Corey
unsent
I’m spiraling, Cor. Fall is setting in and the nights are getting longer, but my days are still endless. Endless days. No nights. And I miss the darkness, but I can’t sit still. I can�
��t stop. I have to keep going.
I thought Lost saw me, but they only see my art. They all want to see paintings, and most of the time I don’t even remember painting them. I wish you were here. I wish I had a way to contact you beyond the letters Aaron sends out for me, but the spa doesn’t have a phone or reception, and I can’t go home. They wouldn’t let me.
I just want someone to talk to.
I wish you would come sooner, because I’m so tired. I can’t sleep. I’m burning. I wish you would come sooner. I don’t know if I can wait.
I will wait.
I wish I could tell you how much I miss you.
Letter from Kyra to Corey
unsent
Dear Corey,
They took away my stories and my books, and left me only with paints. This notebook is my secret, so now you are my diary.
Writing to you has become the start of my day and the end of it. I’ve written you so many letters. I’m not sure what Dad reads, so I’ll only send you the safe ones, where my real messages are written between the lines. The rest—these letters, I won’t risk sending. But maybe it doesn’t matter. I’ve gotten used to your silences.
Perhaps you’ll read this one day. I hope you will. And perhaps it will be easier for me to write without expecting an answer. I still hope and pray that I can tell you this story in person one day, but in case I can’t.
Here goes.
Remember when we danced on the ice before you left? Remember how I told you stories about Lost Creek? I’ve never been a good storyteller, I know that. I’d much rather study stories than tell them. But I always thought we’d make our own legends.
Let me tell you a story.
There once was a lonely girl who lived in an abandoned spa, among candles and flowers and offerings. She didn’t belong in the community around her, but when she carved out her own space, the people came to her. For stories and secrets and art.
There once was a boy who never smiled. Everyone who knew him knew that he was searching, but he didn’t know what he was looking for, so he couldn’t find it—or happiness.
The boy who never smiled visited the lonely girl who lived in the abandoned spa. Unlike the others, he came just to be. And the girl was relieved. And she told him that sometimes the things we hope to find are things that must come to us instead. And not long after, a stranger came to town who brought the boy what he needed. And for the first time, the boy smiled.
There once was a lonely girl who lived in an abandoned spa. She spent her days waiting. Waiting for the townspeople to visit her, and waiting for them to leave again. Because while she’d hoped they would bring her the friendship she longed for, they brought her flowers and candles, and then left with her hope.
Let me tell you a story.
There once was a lonely girl who lived in an abandoned spa. The people used her, drained her of all she had to give, until she had nothing left.
I have nothing left.
I’m scared, Cor.
Come back to me.
History
A Year and a Half Before
“Do you believe in God?” I asked Kyra. We sat on the dock of White Wolf Lake, our feet dangling in the water, the summer sun hot on our faces.
“Yes. Sometimes. Maybe?” She shrugged. “There’s more that exists outside the borders of Lost, so why shouldn’t that hold true for the borders of this world and this life? Besides, what is religion if not a collection of myths and legends? Stories to help explain the unknown?”
I tilted my head a little. “Then what do you believe in?”
The corner of her mouth pulled up in a wry half smile. “I don’t know, exactly. I like the idea of a benevolent god. God is love? I can believe that. But I want my life to have meaning because I give it meaning, not because someone else says that it does. I want my life to mean something because I create. Because I love. Because I make the world a better place.”
“I believe in the universe.” I hesitated. “I believe in you.”
She turned to me, but her eyes strayed to a point far behind me. “Do you?” she asked quietly. “Do you believe in me? Or do you believe in my manic episodes?”
“Kyra…”
“I know we have our hero days, but it’s not my bipolar disorder that makes me want to change the world. It’s me. Do you believe that I can?”
“Life just seems a lot easier when you’re…”
“When I’m manic and bursting with energy? Have you ever not slept for days on end? All I hear are a million stories, but I can’t sit still long enough to write them down. All I see are images that demand to be committed to paper because otherwise they’ll claw their way out through my skin.” She spoke loud and fast, her words flowing from emotion, not mania. “Trust me, those episodes aren’t easier. I’m more productive, but it isn’t because I’m happier. It’s because I’ll burn up if I’m not busy. And I’m never busy with the work I really want to produce.”
I flinched. I’d never noticed that Kyra didn’t paint when she was depressed or between episodes. And I hadn’t considered whether or not she liked to paint. I’d never thought to ask. And I didn’t want to admit that.
Kyra sighed, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft and low. “It isn’t easier when life goes flat, either. When my moods turn dark and it feels like the sun won’t rise again.”
“I…” Kyra’s nights scared me. The idea of losing her scared me. Not knowing how to fix that darkness scared me.
“I have to be able to talk about my illness—my episodes—without you jumping to conclusions.”
“I don’t jump to conclusions.” I paused and shook my head. “I do. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not a puzzle to solve, you know.”
Her words hit me hard. “I know. I don’t want to solve you, I want to help you. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“You’re my friend. All I need you to do is be here with me. I don’t want you to flinch away from me.”
I turned to her and stared directly into her hazel eyes. “I really am sorry.”
She nods. “I know.”
Allies
I make it through half the letters before I run to the bathroom and throw up the meager breakfast I’d eaten. My head is spinning. I need fresh air. I need to get out.
I head toward Aaron’s cabin. The closer I get to it, the stronger it smells of sulfur from the hot springs, although I imagine he’s used to it.
Aaron’s door stands ajar. Snow has blown in, dusting the floor. I frown. Weird. Knocking, I let myself in. “Aaron?”
The cabin is a small, square building, with tiny, square rooms. A living room. A kitchen. A bedroom. A bathroom. All for the keeper of the spa. And it’s quiet. Too quiet.
A breeze as light as a sigh caresses the back of my neck.
“Aaron?” I try again. My voice trips and breaks.
A small, half-built model airplane sits on the kitchen table. A tiny jar of paint is open, and a brush rests on top of it. I pick it up. The hairs have gone hard and the paint in the jar has dried out.
I saw Aaron yesterday, but it seems like he hasn’t been here for some time.
I walk to the coffee table and straighten a dust-covered magazine. The mug next to it is half filled with something entirely too green and fuzzy for coffee. There’s a phone with a rotary dial, like the kind you see in old movies, on a desk in the corner of the room. When I pick it up, there’s no dial tone.
I try Mom’s number.
Nothing.
“Aaron?” My voice is loud and shrill. Nothing. The rooms are empty, and the silence is too much for me.
Outside, the snow deepens.
Letter from Kyra to Corey
unsent
Sometimes I wonder who they see when they visit me, Cor. Not Kyra. Not me. Because they’ve never seen me. Not even when I tr
ied so hard for them to notice me, to get to know me. They see a girl who can help them, who will answer their requests and their petitions. (I can’t call them prayers. How could I?)
But how can I deny them?
My art has worth to them. Even if it doesn’t to me. They see it as otherworldly, meaningful.
If they need someone to believe in, how could I take that away from them? At least what I do now makes Lost a better place. It may not be the same as understanding legends and myths, but together, we’re creating new stories.
It matters. I matter. I’ve never felt like this before.
How can I deny them?
I can do this, if it’s the only thing I can do. Nothing else was enough.
I’ll never tell them that I need something to believe in too.
Unexpected Friendship
I keep Kyra’s tattered notebook close. I’ve settled into one of the chairs near the fireplace again when a loud knock echoes through the entrance hall. I tense all over. Who’s here? Why is anyone here? What do they want? Sheriff Flynn made it clear that Lost wants nothing to do with me, and I want nothing to do with it.
But what if… What if they refuse to let me leave? I have little in the way of defense. I could flee the spa, but I can’t flee Lost until my plane arrives tomorrow.
I glance out a window and see Roshan and Sam standing outside, outfitted with backpacks and sleeping bags.
I open the door. “Hi?”
“Hi,” Roshan says. We’ve only crossed paths a few times this week, but he smiles like we’re old friends. “Can we come in?”
“Um, sure?” I step aside to let them to enter.
Roshan strides in, followed by Sam, who wraps me in a hug. He smells of woodsmoke, and the scent is so potent, so pungent, that I freeze. Immediately, he pulls back. He looks at my face, and realization washes over his. “I was burning waste,” he says with a catch in his voice. “I promise you, I would never.”
Before I Let Go Page 13
