My fingers touch the notebook. The letter Mr. Henderson wants is inside it, and I won’t be able to withdraw it without his seeing the notebook too. I don’t want him to see it. Kyra didn’t want him to have it. She hid it away for a reason.
But Kyra wouldn’t have wanted this either. He won’t listen to me. But maybe he’ll listen to her. One day. Maybe if he reads her letter—all her letters—he’ll understand her.
And maybe he won’t. But if I take Kyra’s notebook to the outside world, who would they believe? The words of a young, bipolar girl, or the collective testimony of an entire town?
Forgive me, Kyr.
“Mr. Henderson,” I say.
His eyes flash. Once, I thought Kyra had her father’s eyes. They both shared the same sharp intelligence and curiosity. But now he towers over me and hatred twists his features into harsh angles. He is nothing like Kyra anymore.
And I pity him.
I hold out the notebook for him to see, and he freezes. “Take her letters.” Then I send it sailing through the air, as if it were a Frisbee, toward the edge of the clearing. In the shadows. If he doesn’t find it soon, it’ll likely be lost forever.
“Catch.”
The instant he lets go of my leg, I scramble to my feet and run. Down the hill. Through the trees. Stumbling over the snow and the rotting branches beneath it. I run until I reach the spa, my leg aching and my eyes burning with tears.
Roshan catches me. There’s a gash across his temple, but aside from that, he looks no worse for wear.
I nearly sob in relief.
“He needs me. He needs my father’s investment. He would never have hurt me.” Roshan is probably trying to make me feel better, but he doesn’t. He holds out my backpack and what’s left of my belongings. I don’t have the energy to reach for it. I can’t hold myself up. I can’t keep my emotions at bay. I can’t stop shaking.
I collapse onto the ground. Roshan kneels next to me and wraps an arm around me. “I’m here,” he says. “I’ll stay with you.”
“I want to go home.”
“I know.”
Roshan shelters me from everything I’m afraid of as I cry myself dry. And when I stop shivering, he hugs me tighter.
“Kyra told me that you want to be an astronomer. The sky is clearing. Will you tell me about it?”
I bite my lip and glance up. I can see Venus from here, bright in the path of the moon. Gemini and Orion with Betelgeuse, high above us. Canis Major, and a muted Milky Way passing through. The sky around us edges blue, and a single meteor streaks down in a bright flash.
I smile.
Maybe this is why I never minded the night sky, even when I hated the darkness. Because there’s so much light here.
Day Six
Hero Days
Almost Two Years Before
“Why do you call them hero days?” I asked Kyra early one morning. We’d walked out to the airstrip to see the sun rise above the mountains in the distance. It wasn’t too long after the ice broke up, and sunlight felt like a luxury.
“Because every story needs a hero,” Kyra said. “And I would like to be the hero of my story.”
“Can I be your sidekick?”
“I’d rather you be the hero of your own story,” she said. “A companion to mine.”
“What will we fight? Monsters? Supervillains? Dragons? Moose?”
The sky slowly turned pink in front of us, sunlight bleeding into the blue. Kyra stared at the rising dawn, and the wind played with her hair. “Fear,” she said, eventually. “We’ll fight fear itself.”
“How?”
“By embracing it. We must not deny our fear. We have to remember to be afraid. And we have to go on anyway.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“I know.”
She walked to the edge of the strip and perched on a small rock. When she folded in on herself like that, she was all knees and elbows and so much smaller than I knew her to be. “I forget to be afraid sometimes. Brief moments, usually during my manic periods. I forget what it’s like to be different, and I forget to be afraid.”
“Don’t you want to forget?” I asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to be afraid. But I do want to remember myself, who I am.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Being stuck here,” she said, her voice flat. “I’ve told you that before.”
I waited.
“Me,” she continued. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt myself—or others. I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.” She paused. “And you,” she said. “I’m terrified to lose you.”
“You won’t,” I whispered.
“You can’t promise that.”
“No, I can’t.”
She hugged her knees to her chest. “But most of all, I’m afraid of them. Lost has a code, Cor, and I don’t belong to it. I don’t fit in, and they’d rather push me out. I’m a threat to them, so I can’t stop being afraid, because I know they’re a threat to me.”
I sat down next to her on the still-frozen grass and let her lean against me. The pink sky burned into orange as the first rays of the sun touched the horizon. It lit the white-capped mountains and, inch by inch, the world around us. I’d always preferred the planets and the stars, but there was something to be said for watching the world wake up. It was a quiet wonder.
“We call them hero days,” Kyra said, “because that is when we fight fear itself. And we win.”
Homeward Bound
Roshan takes me to Aaron’s cabin, where we spend the night. I might have managed to sleep; I’m not sure. But Roshan and Aaron stay with me, and at some point, Sam joins us too. Maybe that’s all that matters. Mr. Henderson has the letter he came for, and more. Lost still has its lore, and I am safe.
I cling to my bag in the predawn twilight, as the two of them accompany me to the airstrip. I don’t have my phone. I don’t have most of my clothes. But I have my passport, my memories, and a way out. Part of Kyra will always be in my heart. Part of her will never be free of Lost. She will live on in the histories they tell, the stories they whisper, and the images she left behind.
When the plane touches down, Roshan walks me to it, and I have to ask, “Will you tell Kyra’s story? Will you tell what happened last night?”
Roshan helps me in next to the pilot. He hands me my bag with a sad smile. And I know that, apart from the pieces I take with me, Kyra’s story will never make it out of the borders of Lost. It’ll grow into the legend she never wanted.
“No one would believe me any more than they would believe you. I’m sorry. But even though we failed Kyra, maybe we can honor her by living. And loving. And learning.”
And maybe, I add silently, by not keeping secrets anymore. “Different rules. A different world.”
“We can build our future, Corey. We owe it to her. I do.”
I look toward the horizon, and Aaron lifts his hand from his pocket to wave. Sam stands next to him by the road.
“I told you, when we talked about the mine, Father wants to do this right if he can. So do I.”
I look beyond him, toward Lost, and I know it’s the last time I will see this place I once called home.
“Go to Sam, Roshan. Go home.” I’m going home too.
Roshan steps back, and the plane’s small motor makes a mighty noise. A few minutes later, the captain begins our taxi down the runway. The pine trees on either side of the small plane blur as we pick up speed.
I lock my eyes on the deep blue sky in front of us, and I don’t look back.
All the Lives We Shared
My Kyra was not extraordinary. No more than any of us are—and no less either. She loved toffee and berries. She hated pears and white chocolate. Her favorite color was magenta. She loved rainstorms and snow angels and sitting in the sun with a book a
bout anthropology or literary structure. She was a geek. She was determined. She had long nights and hero days, and she was still a girl, my girl. She was bipolar, and that was not the least of her or the best of her, but it was irrevocably part of her. She was a storyteller. And for all of her visions, she was not a visionary the way Lost wanted her to be. She was not a prophet.
Or at least, I don’t remember her like that.
Instead, I choose to remember her as she was, standing at the airstrip, while Mom and Luke and I were saying our final goodbyes to Lost. She wore a gray T-shirt with pink flowers, and her long hair was tied back in a braid. Her glasses reflected the bright sun.
As we were getting ready to board the plane, she took me aside. “This’ll be a new story,” she said. “And it’s yours to tell. But please don’t leave me out of it, okay?”
I shook my head fervently. “I wouldn’t. I would never.”
“We’ll write. You’ll come visit. And then maybe next year, I can come visit you. I want to see the University of Winnipeg’s Anthropology Museum, in any case. And maybe you can take me to the Royal Astronomical Society.”
She knew me so well. It figured that she’d researched my new hometown better than I had. I’d been reluctant to, because doing so would make our move more real. But there on the airstrip, unable to deny the imminent change, it felt as if someone had opened a door, and now that I stood in front of it, all I wanted to do was see what was on the other side.
“I’ll bring you the world,” I said.
She smiled. And I didn’t know—I never knew—if she was being genuine or if she was faking it to be brave.
“We’ll see each other soon,” I promised.
“I hope so,” she said.
She was the last one standing on the airstrip as we took off. I watched her until she was nothing more than a spot amid the green.
That is how I will remember her. And with every corner I turn, I will still expect to see her. With every constellation I observe, I’ll wonder about stories as well as science. I’ll build a bridge to her. I’ll look for falling stars.
My regrets are not forgiveness. Neither is my dawning understanding. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
This isn’t happily ever after.
But it’s hope. And this is where I start a new story.
Once upon a time…
Author’s Note
Lost is an odd place, but Kyra’s struggles and the abuse she suffers are all too real. If you or someone you know struggles with mental health crises, you deserve to be supported, and you deserve to have access to the help you need. If you’re thinking about suicide, you deserve immediate support. Please know there are people out there who want to provide that help.
If you’re inside the United States, and you have questions about mental health and treatment options, you can reach out to:
•National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) helpline: 1-800-950-NAMI (6264)
•Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) national helpline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357)
If you’re experiencing suicidal thoughts, please reach out to:
•National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)
•Trevor Project Lifeline for LGBTQ youth: 1-866-488-7386
•Crisis Text Line: text “home” to 741741
If you’re a teen who prefers to talk with another teen, you can also reach out to Teen Line by calling 1-310-855-HOPE (4673). Trans Lifeline offers crisis support for trans people by trans people at 1-877-565-8860 in the United States and 1-877-330-6366 in Canada.
Helplines are available in many places and in many forms. If you’re outside of the United States, you can find suicide prevention hotlines for your country via www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines as well as via www.yourlifecounts.org/need-help/crisis-lines.
In Canada, crisis centers are organized by province. You can find a list of resources through the Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention (suicideprevention.ca), while MindYourMind offers both resources and interactive tools (mindyourmind.ca).
In the UK and Ireland, you can reach out to the Samaritans helpline at 116 123. In the UK, Mind provides advice and support too, via mind.org.uk and via the Mind Infoline at 0300 123 3393.
In Australia, BeyondBlue offers support and advice via beyondblue.org.au and at 1300 22 4636. Lifeline offers crisis support and suicide prevention at 13 11 14. In New Zealand, you can also reach out to Lifeline, by calling 0800 LIFELINE (543 354). If you’re dealing with suicidal thoughts, call 0508 TAUTOKO (828 865). New Zealand’s national mental health and addictions helpline number is 1737.
Please reach out to someone. Please know that you matter. Please stay.
Acknowledgments
One of the greatest joys and greatest honors of being an author is being part of a larger community. Thank you to the many writers and creators who amaze and inspire me. To the advocates who work tirelessly to make books more welcoming and more inclusive. To the countless readers who read and shared my books, who reached out to me, who trusted with me their hopes and dreams. To you, holding this book. Thank you. Here’s to many more.
Never-ending gratitude—
To Jennifer Udden, best and fiercest of agents. Thank you for being such a passionate champion of my stories. I’m so grateful you have my back. To Barry Goldblatt, for making me feel so at home in the BG Literary family. And to Tricia Ready, for appreciating snow as much as I do.
To Annette Pollert-Morgan, my magnificent editor. Your comments push me beyond what I thought my limits were, and your insight makes me a better author at every step of the way.
To everyone at Sourcebooks, for being such a welcoming home for me and my books: Dominique Raccah, Barb Briel, Todd Stocke, Steve Geck, Sarah Kasman, Cassie Gutman, Bret Kehoe, Michelle Lecuyer, Lynne Hartzer, Nicole Hower, Kelly Lawler, Sarah Cardillo, Danielle McNaughton, Heather Moore, Valerie Pierce, Beth Oleniczak, Alex Yeadon, Chris Bauerle, Heidi Weiland, Sean Murray, Bill Preston, Margaret Coffee, Shane White, Sara Hartman-Seeskin, Caitlin Lawler, Jennifer Sterkowitz, John Donnelly, Tina Wilson, Christy Droege, Susan Busch. You are all extraordinary. You make dreams come true.
To my foreign publishers, for letting my stories travel the world. It’s such an honor.
To the stars in my night sky: Hannah Weyh, my favorite unicorn, who was the very first person I told about Corey and Kyra (back when they still had different names). Dahlia Adler, who believes in me even when I don’t and whose fierce embrace of Lost Creek kept me going. Corinne Duyvis, my partner in adventures and accidental twin in all ways that count. And Fox Benwell, without whom this book would not exist and without whom I would be less than I am.
To Katherine Locke, for chats about plots, politics, publishing, and for always being there. Jessica Spotswood, for long emails and companionship. Francesca Zappia, for geeking out, terrible ideas, and awkward tapestries. Rebecca Coffindaffer, PitchMadness team cohost and community cheerleader extraordinaire. And to so many others. (You know who you are.) Thank you.
Unending gratitude to the sensitivity readers who shared their experiences with me, who read this book at various stages in the process and tirelessly helped me to shape this story and these characters: Ami Allen-Vath, Tawney Bland, Rae Chang, Ronni Davis, Lex Leonov, Tara Sim, Kayla Whaley, and those of you who wish not to be named. I am so grateful for your friendship and your generosity. What I did right was because of you; any mistakes I made are squarely on me.
To Becky Albertalli and Heidi Heilig, who fended my questions with patience and grace. You are two of the kindest, most generous people I know, and it’s an honor to call you friends.
I wrote a good chunk of this book in a Scottish mansion, in amazing company. So this one goes out to the Writing Weasels. For playing Sardines in haunted hallways, exploring castles with secret libraries, and foraging our own food in the wood
s.
Stories lie at the heart of Before I Let Go, and stories have always been the heart of me too. Storytelling shaped me and saved me. Books inspire me. And in the process of working on this book, I tripped and fell into the internet and rediscovered my love for shared story worlds. Thank you to the cast, crew, and community of Critical Role, for being instrumental in that, for bolstering my creativity at a time when I didn’t think anything could. To the parties I’ve played with and the players I had the honor of GMing. And especially to my YA&D crew. You’re the finest, most dysfunctional party any DM could wish for. Thank you for diving headlong into a world that only exists in my imagination and for giving it life. (PS: Mind the Trickster. Watch the Thief. Beware the Dragon.)
Finally, always, to my mom, my sisters, my nephew, my closest friends, the people who know me better than I do: you are the brightest constellations. Thank you. Endlessly.
About the Author
Marieke Nijkamp is a storyteller, dreamer, globe-trotter, geek. She holds degrees in philosophy, history, and medieval studies, has served as an executive member of We Need Diverse Books, is the founder of DiversifYA, and is a founding contributor to YA Misfits. She lives in the Netherlands. Visit her at mariekenijkamp.com.
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Before I Let Go Page 18
