Before I Let Go Page 4

  It shouldn’t be a tomb.

  But as long as Kyra’s door remains locked, all of our memories in this place are protected. As long as Kyra’s door remains locked, I can convince myself it’s just another winter morning in Lost Creek, when I rose before twilight and Kyra slept until noon. And I can sit here and stare at the door, waiting for her to wake.

  Perhaps that’s true for Mr. and Mrs. H too. As long as the door remains locked, the room on the other side can hold anything.

  I shake my head and reach for my coat. Kyra would tell me to get up, get out, go do something. Go into town and bring back stories. She’d tell me to remember her instead of mourn her.

  After a moment of indecision, I stuff my phone into my pocket. Reception in Lost is spotty at best, but I’ve picked up some bad habits from the world outside.

  I inch open the door and pause before stepping out. A faint humming filters in. Kyra’s song. The whispers come again, so soft I’m not sure if I truly hear them or if they’re my own subconscious scolding me.

  Deserter.

  You abandoned her.

  You never knew her.

  Stranger.

  Traitor.

  You were never her friend.

  Then silence.

  I convince myself it’s all in my head.

  The Lonely Lake

  I swing by the main house to hand my passport to Mrs. H for safekeeping. It’s habit more than necessity. Lost has little crime, but I don’t like leaving it lying around. She takes it, then shoos me away. She’s baking. Grief baking, she calls it, and I would only get underfoot.

  I could go into town to see if Sam is around, or Tobias maybe. I could talk to Mrs. Morden at the post office, trade Kyra stories with her. But my feet take me along the narrow path leading to the outskirts of town. I keep walking until, just south of Lost, I reach the creek that leads to White Wolf Lake.

  I push the hem of my pants into my boots and begin to run. The rhythm of my steps calms me. Kyra and I raced along the creek so many times I lost track.

  The wind plays with the soft snow, blowing gusts of white across the ice. The pine trees on either side of the deep, dark lake spread out toward the snowcapped mountains.

  When I reach the ice, I skid to a hard stop. Before, I would have quickened my pace and leaped forward, landing on the glassy surface. Bending my knees to create momentum, I would’ve skidded across eternity, spreading my arms wide and letting the wind freeze my nose and the tears on my cheeks.

  Now, the icy lake looms like a pit of darkness, a pit of death.

  I kneel down and place my hand on the ice. Kyra…

  Most of the ice lies undisturbed, with only the barest hint of snow. The wind is too strong here to keep a decent snow cover. There are small cracks, but the only weak spots are the ones we create ourselves, with fishing drills or axes.

  I hesitate. There is no way to quietly slip under this ice. The only way to do so is purposefully.

  I trek along the edge of the lake to the dock and hoist myself up. In the winter, Kyra and I used to walk from one side of the lake to the other. Today, I’m the only one here. I might as well be the only person on earth, as quiet as it is.

  I cannot believe that she died here. I don’t want to believe that she died here.

  On days when Kyra spiraled deep into depression, she would tell me that she just wanted everything to stop. To not be anymore, to cease to exist, as the only relief from those intense lows. But she never should have been in the position to act on that. Even when she struggled with her medication, she felt immeasurably better with it. Kyra’s parents and Rowanne should’ve looked out for her. I would’ve reached out if I’d known. If I’d read the despair in her letters.

  If I’d responded to her letters.

  I would’ve…

  The dock behind me creaks with footsteps, but when I turn, no one is there.

  I’m alone—and I’m too much company for myself.

  When I turn back to the lake, the snow blows away and the ice becomes as clear as glass. Underneath it float constellations of pink flowers. And I lose my breath at the thought of Kyra’s lifeless, frozen body.

  I was her friend, and she was mine. We were best friends long before we tried to be girlfriends, and best friends long after.

  Memories of Infinity

  A Year and a Half Before

  Unlike most of my classmates, I never had crushes. I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about, no matter how much Kyra tried to explain. I didn’t see the appeal of Kyra’s favorite actors, who she thought were hot. I barely remembered their names. My heart didn’t flutter at the sight of a cute guy—or girl—smiling.

  The only time I ever fell head over heels in love was at St. James, when Eileen took me to soccer practice. Except I fell in love with the game, not with the players.

  But at the end of summer, when the nights were lengthening and the air was growing colder, Kyra and I sat in her room. She laughed at a joke I’d made. She was half staring into some distant future as she braided a strand of hair.

  “Mom told me that Mrs. Robinson is making her rhubarb crumble again,” she said. “Maybe we should head over there tomorrow. Offer to help get her garden winter ready. Hope for a bite to eat.”

  Mrs. Robinson’s garden and her rhubarb crumble were legendary in Lost. The rhubarb signaled the end of summer, and the recipe was older than the town itself, although we all secretly thought Mrs. Robinson was too. The woman was as resilient as the trees. At ninety-eight, she had no family to take care of her, but she still patched up her home and tended to her garden. At least, she did on the days that her arthritis released its claw-like grip on her hands.

  Other days, Lost took care of her garden for her.

  Mrs. Robinson was happy to see us. Unlike most others in town, she loved Kyra’s company. She said that Kyra had a storyteller’s soul and a gardener’s hands, and that Kyra understood her land better than anyone else.

  Earlier that week, Piper and Sam had already gone through the extensive garden to remove crop residues, but the frames and trellises, used for roses and vines and other climbers, still needed to be removed.

  We spent a few hours deconstructing the frames and carefully storing them in a raggedy shed that never saw the love the garden did. As Kyra and I worked, our hands touched. More, I thought, than they usually did.

  Under Mrs. Robinson’s direction, we used pitchforks to cover the plots of land with a thick layer of hay, like a scratchy yellow blanket. By the time we finished, our conversation had dwindled, the labor making our breathing heavy, but my arms felt even heavier. Right when I decided I’d never be able to lift my arms again, Kyra started laughing. She spread her arms and fell back in the hay, which, for all its thickness, barely cushioned her fall. She picked a stalk and chewed on it, glancing at me, her eyes sparkling. I lay down next to her with a little more care.

  She rolled over on her side, more straw clinging to her hair. “There’ll be flowers here again this spring. And roses come summer. Can you imagine it?”

  I remembered this year’s garden, and last year’s. I didn’t want to think too hard about next year’s because that meant the start of senior year and college decisions. But Kyra’s fingers twitched. She took in the different plots, as if she were already picturing the future garden. She loved exploring the possibilities of the world she knew.

  Maybe that was why I felt beautiful when she smiled at me. The sun felt hotter. The hay tickled my back, and the sensation crept all the way along my spine, settling in my stomach.

  I pushed myself up on one arm, and on impulse, I reached out and wove my fingers through hers.

  She nibbled at her lower lip as a question appeared in her eyes.

  I inched closer.

  She leaned closer too.

  I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d never
kissed anyone or been kissed before, and I always glanced away when other people made out. But seeing her there made me want to be closer to her than the love and friendship we already shared. I pressed my lips against hers and waited.

  She paused, then smiled against my lips. When she opened her mouth and leaned in farther, she was hesitant and careful. Tender. Curious. Exploring.

  The kiss tasted of hay and earth and salt and the tangy end of summer. It wasn’t fireworks, like one of the girls at school claimed. Maybe it was spectacularly right.

  But not for me.

  I pulled away. And she crumpled.

  Letter Fragment from Kyra to Corey

  sent, unanswered

  Does St. James have legends and myths? Secret societies that meet once a month in the chapel? Ghosts that haunt the dorms?

  Lost has created new legends since you left.

  It’s such a human thing to do. We tell stories about what we don’t understand. I just never considered what it would be like to be at the heart of one of those stories. I want to study myths, not star in one.

  In the Company of Others

  I wander back to the Hendersons’ when twilight gives way to dusk. Mrs. H is preparing dinner, while Mr. H and Sheriff Flynn meet in Mr. H’s study. Mr. Sarin has gone back to the apartment he’s renting on the other side of town to have dinner with his son. Another stranger.

  I curl up on the sofa in the living room and cling to a sports book I brought with me. I can’t focus on the words. I try to ignore the framed photos and Kyra’s painting, but I can’t stop stealing glances.

  When Mr. H and Sheriff Flynn return to the living room, still talking business, I lose focus entirely and give my curiosity free rein. Mr. H would never talk business in front of Kyra. He wanted to be home when he was home—not to spend those rare days when he wasn’t traveling focused on what was happening across the state. But that’s hardly relevant anymore.

  And his talk is not merely of business, but of a future for Lost.

  “—a financial injection into the mineral mining industry will create more jobs in the surrounding area and boost the local economy,” Mr. H says.

  Sheriff Flynn nods. “With a focus on the right projects, Sarin’s money may help revitalize Lost.”

  The more Mr. H and Sheriff Flynn talk, the more I forget my book.

  Apparently this area is still rich—not with gold, but with metals. Wolfram. Bismuth. Both rare and valuable, and no one has ever tried to exploit those resources here. Mr. H’s mining company doesn’t have the researchers or the experience, but apparently Mr. Sarin’s arrival brings both to town. Renewed mining would mean a new and steady source of income. It would create an influx of workers and services. It would strengthen the local economy. Life isn’t impossible in Lost by any means, but it isn’t easy. If the mine reopened, the resulting financial boom would mean everything for the town.

  Still. Kyra always said that there was more to mining than the riches, and there was a world to consider beyond the borders of Lost. Mining damaged the land. It would affect Native life and culture around us. Did Mr. H think about that too? “What about the environmental risks?”

  But with those five words, they both turn to me, and the conversation extinguishes itself.

  “The plans are still in early stages,” is all Mr. H says before he abruptly excuses himself to the kitchen.

  I place my book on the couch. “Sheriff?”

  “As Joe says, planning is under way. We’ll consider what we must for our community.” Sheriff Flynn’s voice is flat. He perches on one of the armchairs and rolls his shoulders back. His hands are balled into fists. “In any case, it’s good to see you visiting Lost, Corey. How’s your mom?”

  I’m momentarily thrown by the change of subject. “Good. She likes her job at the hospital.”

  The lines in his forehead ease a bit. Once upon a time, he and my mom grew up together, and they’ve always remained good friends. “Is she still working too hard?”

  “I don’t think Mom knows what rest means.” The corner of my mouth tugs up. “But at least she isn’t traveling so much anymore.”

  He shakes his head. “She never could stay within these borders. It surprised me when she came back after college. I never expected her to stay.”

  I wondered about that sometimes, what Kyra and I would do after college. Before Mom got her job offer in Winnipeg, I might have daydreamed about life in Fairbanks or even Chile, but I’d never really considered leaving Lost forever. And as far as I knew, Mom had always planned to stay in Lost too. Even after Dad left. But Kyra… “I always thought Kyra would escape too.”

  And with that, Sheriff Flynn’s face hardens again. “Kyra belonged here.”

  Except she didn’t. I glance at the painting. I can’t talk to the Hendersons about Kyra’s death, and part of me still can’t believe that she’s really gone. More than that, I don’t want to believe that she chose to end her own life. “Sheriff, I wanted to ask you—”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” he interrupts me curtly.

  “But I want to understand what happened.”

  He lowers his voice so the Hendersons won’t overhear him. “She drowned, Corey. When she was missing from her room, her father went looking for her and found her body under the ice. That’s all there is to it, and you should know better than to pry into other people’s business. Your mother raised you better than that.”

  I mutter something about what my mother would think if she were here. “But the lake is frozen. The ice is inches thick. You know as well as I do—”

  “It’s always possible to find weak spots.” Sheriff Flynn’s mouth thins. “Lost has changed since you left. But you have too. If you want to continue calling yourself her friend, then you’d better respect this community. Kyra would’ve wanted that. We respected her. We found meaning together. We were here for her.”

  What he doesn’t say is clear. We were here for her. And you weren’t.

  Sheriff Flynn gets to his feet, momentarily towering over me. But it’s not his physical presence that makes me feel small. It’s the anger that radiates from him. After Dad left, he would check up on Mom, Luke, and me, to make sure that we were provided for. He would play ball with my brother and me. Now he turns his back to me.

  All I can think to whisper is, “I miss my best friend, Sheriff.”

  But instead of acknowledging my words, he shrugs them off and walks back toward Mr. H’s study.

  • • •

  My attempts at conversation during dinner don’t fare any better. Before we eat, Mrs. H asks for a moment of silence in remembrance of Kyra, but the last thing I need is more time alone with my thoughts.

  Despite planning not to discuss business in front of me, that’s exactly what Mr. H and the sheriff do, though in hushed tones so soft their words are nearly indiscernible.

  I hardly have an appetite, so I keep pushing vegetables around on my plate. And though I try to make conversation with Mrs. H, her welcome has fizzled out. She won’t allow any questions. Instead, she twists all of my questions into ones of her own.

  “How did Kyra find her place here?” I ask.

  “She realized that she needed to stop fighting. It’s hard finding one’s place when you’re so young. I imagine you must’ve had quite a transition these past few months. You don’t belong here anymore, but you don’t belong in your new town yet either. Your mother told me about your boarding school. St. James, is it? She said you were playing soccer. Tell me about that.”

  Once more, I try, “What happened?”

  “Oh, Corey. It was her time. Every story must end, because the ending gives the story meaning. Kyra knew that. She foresaw it. She foresaw a great many things.” She folds her hands and slowly exhales, stealing a glance of her own at the painting in the living room. “I know it’s hard to understand, but we learned to ac
cept it.”

  “What do you mean? If she was suicidal, she needed help.”

  “No.” Mrs. H shakes her head. She closes her eyes, but instead of grief, a look of peace comes over her features. “You’ll come to see it too. Her death was inevitable, and so be it.”

  I bite my lip until I taste blood. Of course Kyra’s death wasn’t inevitable. How can they accept that?

  Mr. H turns to his wife and places a hand over her folded hands. His broad shoulders sag. And all I can think about is how when Kyra was small, she used to love sitting on his shoulders, seeing the world from up high.

  “She’s right, Corey,” he says. “By the time we—I—found her, it was too late. We were too late. But we are comforted by what Kyra would say: that every story must end. It’s death, after all, that gives our lives meaning.”

  Phone Call

  “How was your flight? How is it to be back home?”

  “I’m not sure this is home anymore, Eileen. I feel like a stranger.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, people keep telling me that I am. They call me ‘outsider.’”

  “Corey? Are you okay?”

  “E, did I ever tell you that you’re the only one at St. James who even knows about Kyra?”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because it was hard to talk about her. You were the only one who I thought would understand. You never judged. I carried her with me. My best friend. I didn’t want people to judge me like they did in Lost, except now I wish I had talked about her more. We had so many stories to share.”

  “Oh, Cor.”

  “Out of the two of us, Kyra was the one who believed in better times. I put my faith in science and stars, but she put her faith in stories, which could turn regular people into extraordinary ones. When she had her first manic episodes, they didn’t consume her—they helped her create. We dubbed them ‘hero days.’ They were some of the best times we had in Lost Creek. And now we have no days left at all.”