Wholesome Lives and Hot Springs

Kyra was here. She was here, and she’s waiting for me. I can’t shake the thought from my mind. She’s still waiting for me.

I have to go to her.

After breakfast, I tell Mrs. Henderson I’m going to take a walk. I don’t tell that her I’m going to the spa, in case she tries to stop me. But before I can go to the memorial this afternoon, I need to know where she lived—how she lived—as well as how she died.

With my lunch packed, I make the trek to the hot springs. Although a solitary road leads from Lost Creek to the spa, it’s overgrown and doesn’t get plowed in winter, so I follow the shortcut through the woods.

In the early morning twilight, it’s an easy walk, more so than in the afternoon when the branches cast shadows and the trees whisper. It isn’t snowing, which is a rare occurrence in winter, and I’m going to see Kyra.

Part of me knows it’s not rational, expecting to find her at the hot springs, but that doesn’t stop my heart from racing. I’m giddy with hope. I envelop myself in the wild beauty of our nature. The pine forest seems to go on forever. In spring, it’s not only humans who inhabit these parts, but bears and moose and eagles. Many a summer, we’ve had black bears stroll down Main, and if a moose tried to eat its way through Mrs. Robinson’s garden, it wouldn’t be the first time. It’s a coexistence that’s as natural as breathing.

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.