But when I quizzed her about what she’d discovered, she wouldn’t tell.
I lean against one of the street lights, and I feel like an observer now too. Though I’m not sure what to observe, except for the magenta ribbons that dance in the breeze.
But the longer I look, the more I notice.
First, the mural on the side of the post office. Even in the dim light, I recognize the muted colors of spring. The first bright sunrise. The promise of ice breaking up and the weather warming. It’s so hopeful that it makes me want to cry or rage at the unfairness of it all. This is clearly one of Kyra’s paintings—and she won’t see another spring.
I look away, and cold pricks up my arms.
Silhouettes darken the windows of almost every single house. Everywhere I turn, everywhere, they stare. Yesterday I thought that Lost Creek looked like a collection of dollhouses; today I’ve found the dolls.
A shiver runs down my spine. I take a step back toward the Hendersons’. Someone out of sight starts humming like the girl at the airport. A few bars into the tune, a scream interrupts the song. The sound is shrill and angry, like the screeching of an eagle. But is it a bird or a human? I can’t tell.
I freeze and Lost falls silent. Waiting.
I take another step and the shrieking starts again. My heart pounds. I stop. For the first time in seventeen years, I understand what Kyra meant when she said that she felt claustrophobic here.
Inside the post office, a light switches on. Mrs. Morden, Piper’s grandmother, steps out to hang her fake potted plant next to the door. It’s as if she breaks the spell. The shadows retreat from the windows.
My balled fists relax, and I roll my shoulders, fending off the cold. My movement startles Mrs. Morden. She squints into the early dawn. “Who’s there?”
I come closer, my feet scrunching the freshly fallen snow. “It’s me, Corey. Morning, Mrs. Morden.”
“Corey.”
“I wanted to come say hi.” I smile, but she offers no friendly return.
After a moment, she nods toward the door. “Coffee’s brewing. Make yourself at home.” She sounds resigned, and I deflate. Mrs. Morden is always happy to see everyone. I thought she would be happy to see me.
I follow her into the post office. From the wood paneling on the walls to the old-fashioned service windows, it looks—I imagine—exactly like it did a hundred-something years ago. Of course, Lost Creek never needed more than one clerk in the post office.
Even the coffee machine, brewing inside the small office, looks like an antique. It sounds like one too. I grab a chipped mug and a cookie from one of the shelves and wait for the coffee to finish brewing.
My gaze settles on the desk. This used to be Mr. Morden’s desk. He passed away seventeen years ago, but Mrs. Morden never cleaned it out. It looked like he simply stepped away for a moment. She kept his books stacked next to his mug and his coat draped across the chair. She would dust it and mind it and pretend he was still here.
Whenever Kyra and I visited, we would surreptitiously check to see if any of his belongings had moved. He still had such a presence that we were convinced that his ghost haunted this place.
But now, the desk is empty. The only evidence of old Mr. Morden is a portrait that hangs over his desk.
“That’s one of Kyra’s too,” I blurt from the office doorway.
Mrs. Morden fusses in the main room—straightening the priority box display and readjusting the stamp machine. All the while, she manages to avoid looking at me. “It was time for a change.”
“Did she foresee it?” I snap. It’s the same question that I asked Piper, and I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“I recognized and accepted her gift.” She says nothing more.
When the silence lengthens into discomfort, I pour a second cup of coffee, for Mrs. Morden, and place myself directly in front of her, grasping for a simpler conversation. “I hope you don’t mind. I ate one of your cookies. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
Before, she would have laughed. She would have harrumphed. She would have commented on the forwardness of today’s youth and the negative influence of the outside world.
Now, she only shakes her head and accepts the mug in silence.
I want to ask her how she is, how business is, what all the latest Lost Creek gossip is, like Kyra always used to do when we would come for our mail. What comes out instead is, “Why won’t anyone speak to me?”
She starts at that, almost as surprised as I am. “You know how it is, dear. You’re an outsider. And Lost Creek does not take kindly to strangers.”
We Can Be Heroes
Two Years Before
“My mind is a stranger to me,” Kyra said. She had just come back from her session with Rowanne, and she exuded restless tension.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She closed my books, moved my homework to the side of the desk, and tossed me my coat. “Let’s go to the spa.”
I swallowed a flash of annoyance. We’d claimed the spa as our own last summer, when Kyra was traveling back and forth between Lost and Fairbanks for diagnostic appointments. Our parents had always told us that the building was too old and dangerous to be a playground, but it proved perfect as a hideout when Kyra didn’t want to face Lost’s questions and judgment.
That summer, she’d told me, “You know, this building would be a fantastic secret lair or superhero headquarters. Even with the work Aaron did to restore the rooms and windows, it still looks ancient and decrepit. It’s the perfect facade.”
“Will we be heroes then?” I’d asked.
“No, but we’ll be safe.”
But this day, she didn’t speak again until we had climbed through the spa’s kitchen window. She led me through the building to the bedrooms on the second floor. The rooms on the north side had narrow balconies, and one of them gave us a magnificent view of the green woods, the bright blue sky, and the snowcapped mountains in the distance.
Kyra pulled out the stash of chocolate we’d hidden under a loose floorboard. “Rowanne wants me to try mood stabilizers.”
I broke off a piece of chocolate. “For the mania?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you feel about that?”
She shrugged. “If it helps, I’ll do anything.”
I blundered into my next question. “Won’t you miss it? Not the depression, but the energy?”
On days when the manic episodes didn’t completely overwhelm her, they boosted her. She’d paint for hours. She’d do her homework in a hurry. She’d be intensely happy and up for any adventure.
On those days, we’d spend our time at the spa, and we were heroes. We’d make up the most outrageous stories and act them out. We’d go hunting for secret passages. We’d play hide and seek with shadows.
Those were good days.
“Who’s to say that’s my mania and not me?” Kyra asked.
I opened my mouth and closed it again.
“My mind is a stranger to me,” she repeated, harsher this time. “I can’t control what it does. I know I can’t change that, but I can try to find a better way to live with it.”
Conversations
I recoil. “I’m no more a stranger than you are, or than Kyra was, or anyone else. Lost Creek is our home.”
Mrs. Morden’s eyes flash at the mention of Kyra. “Perhaps it was once.” She places the dustcloth on the corner of the counter by the window and shakes her head. “Night and day don’t wait for us. You knew Lost as it used to be, but we’ve changed since you left. It’s not an accusation, simply a matter of fact. It is how it is, and so be it.”
So be it. Those words are beginning to sound like an echo. I wasn’t here. I should’ve been here. Mrs. Morden may not mean them as an accusation, but they certainly feel like one.
“It’s only been seven months,” I protest weakly.
“And lifetimes.”