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.”

“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.”