I ball my fists and I honest-to-God see red. “But the medication did work. Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not as much as she wanted it to, but she wanted to keep exploring other options. And between the medication and her sessions with Rowanne, she wanted to be better.”
“She couldn’t paint,” Mr. H says.
“She didn’t want to!” Kyra wasn’t happy when she was painting. She was coping.
“But we did,” he says softly. He walks over to Mrs. H, who keeps her head down. “You don’t understand, Corey. We needed the light that she brought.”
His words join the refrain of Lost Creek. You don’t belong here. Outsider. Stranger.
I want to pound the wall in frustration. “She was deeply unhappy.”
Mr. H merely shakes his head. “There’s no way for you to know that. We understood our daughter. We did what was best for her, and for all of us.”
“You didn’t understand her. You didn’t listen to her. And you aren’t listening to me now.” I’m not sure how much of this I think and how much of it I actually speak aloud, but Mr. H blanches.
I take a step back, but he pulls himself together. “The memorial is starting soon. Make sure you’re ready. We will remember her the way she deserved—with respect.”
I keep hearing those words: understand, respect, ours. But repetition doesn’t give them meaning. I don’t care how they want to remember her. “Do you really think…” I bite my tongue.
“Speak your mind, Corey,” Mr. H says, his voice carefully pleasant.
“Do you really think she cared about a memorial? Don’t you think she’d rather still be here?”
He flushes, and I expect him to yell at me. But after another heartbeat, his mouth thins and he nods. “Yes, I do think my daughter cared. She and I talked about this memorial, and I know she wanted you to be present. But you are not a necessity. We leave in thirty minutes.”
I should feel badly for speaking to him so harshly, but I don’t. I’m cycling through anger and grief and guilt and heartbreak. I’m homesick for a person, homesick for Kyra.
As I turn on my heels and head for the door, I overhear Mr. Henderson soothing his wife. “You know this was meant to be, don’t you, Lynda? It’s better this way. She’s at peace.”
Mrs. H’s voice sounds tiny. “I know.”
I close the door behind me, but I can’t shut the conversation from my mind.
? ? ?
In the small cabin, I stare at myself in the mirror. The strapless black tunic I wear is the only piece of clothing I own that even remotely resembles a dress, and combined with a pair of dark jeans and a gray blazer, I hope it looks appropriate. Kyra wouldn’t care, but Lost and I are mourning different people. The Kyra who died a week ago isn’t the friend I left behind. Still, I lost them both.
I pick up my makeup bag and put on some foundation and mascara—just enough to not feel like a ghost myself. Then I dig around until I find the small jewelry purse I packed. My hands tremble, and the bracelet slips through my fingers the first two times, but I finally grab hold of it.
Kyra gave it to me before I left. It takes some messing with the clasp before it dangles around my wrist, but when it does, I feel calmer. I could tell you stories about this, she’d said when she gave it to me.
She never did.
Lost Creek insists on wearing pink, so I do the same. I put on a tourmaline petal charm Kyra made for me.
This new Lost doesn’t seem real, but at least this piece of jewelry, this reminder of our friendship, isn’t fake.
I look back into the mirror, and a sudden breeze plays with my hair, disheveling it. I don’t know where it came from—not from an open window or the heating vent.
Kyra?
A chill runs down my spine as my heart aches. I grab my coat. It’s time to leave for the memorial.
Of the Dead, Nothing but Good
There is ice between Mr. H and me when we leave for Lost School. Maybe I should apologize. Except, I don’t feel sorry. I stand by what I said. Kyra deserved more than this. She deserved more than these people claiming her, instead of accepting her. Now they mourn her without ever really having cared for her. And even if they had—or thought they had—seven months cannot undo years of scars.
The memorial service is held inside the gym of the school, and it’s the first time I’ve been back inside this building that used to feel gigantic to me. It isn’t. The space is hardly larger than the library at St. James, but it’s big enough for everyone in Lost Creek.
From the moment we arrive, the Hendersons are the center of attention, and I’m surrounded by everyone I once knew. The people who, for sixteen years, had been more like family to me than my distant relatives who lived outside the borders of Lost. Mrs. Morden stands near the front of the room talking to Piper. Sheriff Flynn is present with his wife and Sam. In the corner, Jan, who runs the grocery store, is hovering around Mrs. Robinson, carefully keeping an eye on the old lady. Close by is Dr. Stevens, who cured more ills than cabin fever.
Even Aaron has shuffled into the building.
When I’d imagined what coming home would be like, it was this—familiar faces and, despite everything, smiles. It would be like that now, except that when I pass, people retreat. And I miss the two people who are obviously not here. Rowanne, who always came back for Kyra and always had a kind word for me.
And Kyra.
Then Mr. Sarin and Roshan walk in, filling the two empty spaces.
Everyone speaks in hushed tones. Beneath the cacophony of voices lies a more dangerous note. Someone hums the same tuneless song I heard when I first arrived, and it settles itself in my bones.
Occasionally, I pick up fragments of conversation. “It’s a shame the family left town. I thought they knew better. Look at her now. She doesn’t belong here anymore. She doesn’t fit in.”
“She left. She shouldn’t have come back.”
“She doesn’t understand us. She doesn’t understand who Kyra was.”
“Kyra was extraordinary.”
“She doesn’t understand who we are.”
“I liked the boy, Luke. He respected our traditions. He didn’t try to stand out like his sister. And at least with Kyra… Well, that was a whole different story, wasn’t it?”
They glare at me, and I stare right back. Their words hurt me, but I won’t let them see the bruises.
All I want is to see Kyra’s smile. I slowly work my way toward the front of the gym, where I know I’ll find flowers, and hopefully pictures too. But when the masses part before me, I wish I’d stayed put.
Kyra is here. Not in the flesh, of course, but in her art. Paintings, sketches, photographs of paintings that hang in the homes around town all decorate the inset stage. A colorful rendition of Lost Creek, brighter and happier than I’ve ever seen it. An image of the spa covered in flowers. The mine up north in production, apparently taken as a good thing despite the waste around it. A blazing star shooting through the night sky. I can’t help but stare at this last piece. It doesn’t fit with the collection. A supernova would be more apt. Or a black hole.
But the centerpiece is the painting that has been standing in the Hendersons’ living room. The painting where Kyra foresaw her own death.
She’s at peace. It was her time. The voices around me echo in my ears.
White-hot rage courses through me. At peace? She was seventeen. She spent most of her life fighting to belong. And she couldn’t find that peace. Not even in Lost, a town that prides itself on being a home to the forgotten. It wasn’t her time to die. It was her time to live.
Someone should have stopped her after she painted herself under the ice. They should have prevented this.
Someone rests a hand on my shoulder and I startle.
“It makes her look like she’s dancing between the stars, doesn’t it?” Piper says.
“It’s a mockery. It’s terrifying.”
“She was happy, you know. At the end.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” I hiss. I keep my voice low. “Why would anyone who’s happy kill herself?”
“Because she found her purpose and served it. Don’t you remember how she always wanted to change the world? She made a difference. She made Lost a better place to live.” Piper’s eyes flick to the crowd. “Isn’t that all any of us can ask for?”
“She needed help, not a purpose. She needed friends.”