As I’m pulling on a turtleneck sweater, a floorboard creaks in Kyra’s room, and I sob-laugh at the moods of this old house.
Kyra’s bedroom was mine as much as it was hers. Even though my family used to live a few blocks away, even though this little cabin squeaked and groaned around us, Kyra hosted all of our sleepovers. We had everything here. A place for our adventures. An easy route to sneak out. Privacy. Freedom.
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.