“Then tell me how Lost has changed,” I demand, and to my horror, my voice cracks. I’ve never cried in front of anyone, except for Kyra. “Because my best friend is gone, and no one will even let me mourn. My best friend is gone, and all anyone can talk about are her paintings. I want to understand how she lived and how she died.”
“Do you really?” Mrs. Morden folds her hands together, and the gesture is so like my math teacher’s at St. James that I’m momentarily disoriented.
I nod.
“Kyra and Lost bonded over art. Kyra started drawing and painting more after you left. I’m sure you’ve seen her art around town. She found a way to express herself, which helped us all communicate. She started using the old spa as her studio.”
“Is that where she stayed then?”
“Kyra didn’t sleep out in the cold, if that’s what you’re asking,” Mrs. Morden snaps. “She stayed there. She had a comfortable room and lots of space to create. And you know how much she loved that building.”
I know that she went to the spa to escape, to find peace away from the town’s prying eyes.
“Kyra and I talked a lot. She was always curious to hear what Lost was like when I was your age because it was so different back then. We talked about the stories my grandfather told me, the stories her grandfather told her, and the gossip I heard from customers. She told me how she thought Lost would change—and grow.”
I nod. That I can imagine. Kyra always wanted to know the stories that shaped the people around her. She always wanted to understand why people were the way they were. Outside of her episodes, she thrived on company—and on their stories. Like here, the story of a haunted post office.
“The more time I spent with Kyra, the more I thought that she would’ve gotten along well with my late husband. Wilfred saw to the heart of people too, and they were both so easy to talk to. One day we talked about him for hours, and it almost felt like having him here with us. After all those years… It felt as if he were home. A few days later, Kyra had turned one of my old photos of Wilfred into a painting.” She nods at the wall. Kyra had made Mr. Morden look older and weathered, like his widow.
With her free hand, Mrs. Morden pulls a tissue from her sleeve and dabs at her eyes. “I never realized how talented she was until that moment. I never stopped mourning my husband, Corey, but because of her painting, I can imagine that he saw more of this world than he did. Her painting gives me peace.”
“I wish she’d gotten to see more of the world too,” I say.
“Corey?” A hint of urgency creeps into Mrs. Morden’s voice. “You mustn’t worry about her. We were here for her. We provided her with everything she needed. Lost doesn’t take well to change, but we learned to understand her. She was happy.”
“How can you possibly know that?” It takes everything I have to keep my voice even and calm. Kyra escaped to the spa when she didn’t feel comfortable in Lost. She painted when she couldn’t calm her mind. And she died.
“You two used to come here together. She didn’t stop coming after you moved away. We saw each other often, and she made new friends. After she moved into the spa, I went to visit her, at least once a week, and she’d come into town whenever she wanted.” Mrs. Morden reaches out and grabs my hand. Her fingers are stiff and cold. “Kyra found her connection to the people in town through her art. She listened to our requests and our petitions, and she painted dozens of illustrations for us. She spread happiness. Kyra finding a place here was a sign to all of us that Lost can change—and change for the better. After all those years, she’d finally come home to us, and we to her. She was at peace.”
“Then why did she take her own life?”
“Because no star can burn forever.”
I still have so many questions, but the one that tumbles out is, “Did she ever talk about me?”
Mrs. Morden smiles, even as her eyes become watery. She squeezes my hand as hard as her old muscles will let her. Then she goes to her desk and shuffles through the papers in her drawer. She produces a postcard, which she hands to me. Kyra’s telltale handwriting covers the back of it. “With every letter she sent out, dear, and the ones she didn’t,” Mrs. Morden said to me. “She talked about you whenever she could.”
The Choices We Make
Two Months Before
Noa barged into my dorm room without knocking and dumped the mail on my bed. “Can I borrow this issue when you’re done?” she asked, gesturing to my copy of World Soccer.
I glanced up from my physics homework. “Sure. If you want, you can read it first.”
“Nah.” She held up an armful of comics—the latest Ms. Marvel the only visible title. “Eloi provided me with plenty of reading. I’m good for now.”
I smirked. “My brother would get along so well with yours.”
“Next Family Day?”
“We should ask Eileen to introduce them to her tabletop game club. Luke would be all over that.”
Eileen appeared in the doorway. “Who would be all over what?” She spotted the mail delivery. “Ooh, you got the new World Soccer!” She fell onto my bed and started to read.
“We’re showing our geeky brothers around St. James on Family Day. You should take them along to Boarding Games,” Noa said. With no other place to sit, she leaned against my desk.
“So now I’m the resident nerd?” Eileen propped herself up on one elbow and pushed a black curl behind her ear.
“Nerd, scribbler, dorm grandma, decent midfielder.” Noa ticked off the list on her fingers.
“Dorm grandma?” Eileen sat up and her dark brown eyes flashed. “Excuse you, I’m six months younger than you are. I’m also a better player, and my writing happens to be art.”
With an inward smile and an outward sigh of resignation, I reached for my physics book. With the two of them in that mood, I knew I’d get nothing done.
At the sound of the book slamming shut, both Eileen and Noa looked at me, mischief in their eyes. They couldn’t be more dissimilar if they tried. Eileen was small and lanky, one of the few Black girls at St. James, and one of the most tactical players I knew. Noa, white and with long blond hair, was tall and broad, a strong striker whose physicality had helped our team on numerous occasions.
But despite their differences, their matching smiles were both aimed at me.
“Speaking of the beautiful game,” Eileen said, “we should go to the fields.” She got up and leaned theatrically toward me. “Coach brought Maddy along,” she mock-whispered, loudly enough for Noa to hear. “She’s home for a couple of days before her team’s midseason training retreat. She got picked to start varsity for her first game, so she’s now a very desirable collegiate athlete.” She drew out the last four words.
Noa blushed furiously and made an unconvincing excuse before bolting to change her clothes.
I grinned at Eileen. “You’re evil and I love it.”
“I know.” She picked up a letter from Kyra and handed it to me. “If you want to stay in and read first… Maddy will be here for a while. Plenty of time to bother Noa later.”
I accepted the letter and stared at Kyra’s looping handwriting. It was such a familiar sight, such a reminder of Lost. I wanted to know what she had to say, and I had so much to tell her too. I fit in here, Kyr. I have friends. Sports. Can you imagine, me, an athlete? I’m so different here.
I never knew how to start explaining that to her.
I opened my desk drawer and placed the letter on top of the stack of her other letters. Some opened, some unopened. All unanswered.
I bit my lip. “I’ll read it tonight.”
Eileen tilted her head. “Are you sure?”
“And miss those first awkward conversations? No chance.”