Yet, in winter, it’s quieter. And even though the bears hibernate and the eagles migrate, the land is still beautiful. The vast layer of snow tucks us in, softening color and sound. I’ve always thought we don’t need a church in Lost because we have nature to inspire awe.
Gradually, the hot springs come into view, as does the spa. It’s an old, burgundy hotel with two floors, sloped roofs, and rooms for maybe two dozen guests. According to Kyra, it was built at the start of the twentieth century. The hot springs were first used by miners on their way to or from the Klondike. But in the following decades, it became an increasingly popular tourist destination. Although Lost Creek couldn’t compete with the hot springs in Circle or Chena, it had a steady clientele for almost half a century. Now that it’s abandoned, we’ve made it ours. Kyra and me. And before us, Anna. Amy. Will. Those of us who’ve escaped Lost over the years have all carved our names in the banister, leaving a piece of ourselves behind.
I slow down. Kyra and I always snuck in through the back because, technically, we weren’t supposed to be there. The building was considered by the town to be a monument to its history and therefore out of bounds for us. But if Lost knew that Kyra was staying here, then presumably the front door would be unbolted and unlocked?
I pause and eye the road leading up to the spa.
I could ask Aaron, the groundskeeper, who lives not far from here in a small, modern cabin. Or I could simply try the door. But neither option feels right. Kyra wants me here.
So I stick to the tree line as I circle the hotel, to sneak in like old times.
? ? ?
I haul myself in through a small window on the north side of the building and end up on what Kyra and I had deduced must have once been a kitchen counter. The room itself is yellowed and empty. The floor around the counter is caked in mud. A little snow has blown in.
I jump down and stamp the snow off my boots. Mine aren’t the only prints here. I crouch and my heart hammers. The others are dry and at least a few days old. It’s hard to tell the size of the boots—the prints aren’t clear enough—but I convince myself they’re Kyra’s. I want them to be hers. I trace the prints, imaging her climbing in through this window on one of her adventures. I imagine her alive and well.
Kyra.
I follow the tracks to the hallway that runs along the back of the building, through the service quarters. One door leads directly from this hallway to the entrance, but it’s locked and the lock has long since rusted shut. So instead, I follow the footprints up a narrow staircase to the second floor. It’s convoluted and damp, but a small price to pay for a private hideout. Besides, Kyra and I walked these steps so many times, I could navigate this place from muscle memory.
The walls here are covered in faded graffiti. In old photos, this place looked resplendent, with thick carmine carpet and gold-threaded wallpaper, but those days passed long ago.
I head toward the foyer, staying away from the creaky wooden bannister. Leaning on it too hard could send it, and me, spiraling down to the first floor. Instead, I stand at the top of the stairs like a fairy-tale princess in a parka and jeans. And I stare.
The entrance is a large space that is open to the second floor, and it has become a riot of colors. It’s filled with flowers and paintings and candles and papers. It’s as bright as it ever was dusty, and it looks far more alive than the rest of the building.
In front of the fireplace, which bears traces of recent use, are two comfortable-looking chairs. A few sketchbooks are stacked on the side table.
I slowly descend the stairs, and with every step I take, I notice more details.
On the far side of the room, on a large table, is a collection of sketches and sketchbooks and paints and other art supplies. Candles and melted wax are clustered in front of paintings and drawings that are propped up against the walls. The flower bouquets around them are withered, but I see salmonberry flowers and little specks of magenta everywhere I turn.
This isn’t a hangout or a home. It’s a shrine.
Birds with Broken Wings
Seven Months Before
In a place like Lost Creek, our entire world was a handful of square miles, bordered by water, trees, and mountains. But when Kyra was painting, she forgot the confines of Lost, of realism. Painting stilled the constant churning of her mind. It gave her an outlet, though she hardly ever remembered it afterward.
It was either painting or running through the forest, she told me, and when she was painting, she couldn’t trip over roots or fall down a hill. It was self-care, she said. She needed to escape her mania one way or another.
It was June, and Kyra let me watch. She didn’t usually tolerate observers, but it was the week before Mom, Luke, and I would be leaving for Winnipeg and Mom’s new job at the children’s hospital. We had so little time left together, and neither of us wanted to spend time apart.
We sat on the dock at White Wolf Lake, and she had a large sketchbook in front of her. I held her paints, although I wasn’t sure if she noticed I was there. She was working so fervently, and I kept holding my breath, as if I were watching an athletic race.
Despite the fact she used limited colors and shades that were more vivid than the scenery around us, it didn’t take me long to recognize her subject matter.
Luke was the first to appear on the page. His eyes were a smidge too green and bright, his hair too spiky, but it was him. I’d never seen Kyra draw him like that, and something in the way she made him smile punched me right in the chest. She was so talented. And he looked so happy.
She depicted him in motion, running toward us. It looked as though he could step out of the page at any moment.
Next, Tobias. Piper’s brother. Of course they’d be together. The two of them always were. In her painting, he followed behind Luke at some distance, holding something in his hand. As Kyra continued, the details became clearer and clearer. From Tobias’s hoodie to the boots he wore to the bird he held in his palm. A kestrel—in bright magenta—with one wing at an awkward angle.
It was the perfect Lost Creek scene.
Kyra continued adding trees and shadows behind the two boys, adding depth and distance. From what little I’d seen of Kyra’s art, she preferred to paint the flowers of Mrs. Robinson’s garden or draw landscapes of places far beyond our hometown, into the realm of imagination. This was the first time I could think of that Kyra had painted someone from Lost Creek.
She kept going for a while longer, adding nuance and improving on flaws I didn’t see. And she kept messing with the image. She changed colors near the edges. She turned half of the forest blue. All the while, I was mesmerized by her brushwork.
Then her hands started to tremble, and she swayed on the dock.
She put down her brush. If she could’ve gone on, it wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d changed the boys’ clothes or their expressions.
“It’s beautiful,” I said softly.
She glanced at me and then at the painting, then she looked away. “Eh.”
Her gaze darted across the horizon, as if the restlessness were building inside her again. These episodes always made her look haunted, and I longed to be the one to anchor her.
She started to close her sketchbook when I snatched it from her. “Wait a minute. Let it dry.”
“Why?”
I shook my head. “Luke would love how you portrayed him and Tobias with that bird—like heroes.”
Her smile was crooked. Forced. “We could all do with more heroes.” She climbed to her feet, stretched, and began to pace.
“We could always do with more heroes,” I agreed as I stared at the painting. She’d lost herself in the act of creating before, but I’d never seen her produce work like this. Even with a limited color palate, this looked real.
Yet she didn’t see how impressive it was.
“When you’re in Canada,” she said, still pacing, “think of me?”
I looked up at her. “Do you honestly believe that I could forget you?”
Before she could answer, footsteps sounded on the dock behind us, and someone gasped. I turned to find Piper, staring at Kyra’s painting. “That is magical.”