The Alchemy of Forever (19 page)

My face falls. “I only have three hundred.”

Lucia studies me for a moment, chewing her lip. Then she returns. “Okay. Just this once he’ll do it for three hundred.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! How did you do that?” I breathe. It will wipe out my cash, but there have to be other ways to replenish it. Perhaps Bryan has money, or I suppose I could find something in the Morgans’ house to sell. The thought makes my stomach churn, but I am desperate.

Lucia shrugs. “He owes me.”

I pull out my wad of cash and count out three hundred dollars, then hand it over to her. She gives me a piece of paper, and I write down the details of Kailey’s accident: date, location, and the name of the hospital she was taken to.

Just then the bald man from the photo studio appears and hands me an envelope. I open it and am staring at Kailey’s face on the new ID. My new name is Jane Smith. I look at the man questioningly, and he shrugs, the smallest hint of a smile playing on his lips. “You didn’t tell me what name you wanted, so I picked it out.”

I thank them both, resisting the urge to hug Lucia. I tell her she’s a fairy godmother, and she laughs and waves me out.

“Good morning,” I say brightly to Mrs. Morgan on Tuesday as I glide into the kitchen, punctuating my greeting with a kiss on her cheek.

Mr. Morgan looks up from his newspaper. “Uh-oh. Last time you were this happy, Noah came to the door acting suspiciously like your boyfriend. What’s next? Are you two engaged?”

“Ha-ha.” I swoop down and kiss his cheek as well. “I’m just in a good mood. It’s a beautiful day.” I hope I don’t sound as fake as I feel. Come tonight, their lives will change irrevocably. They will know there was a
before
—a time when they had two happy children—and an
after
, when they are left with only one. They will look back to before and wonder how they failed to savor every moment. They will wonder why they ever let petty problems bother them, why they didn’t realize how good things were. I can’t spare them the grief they’ll feel, but I can try to leave them with good memories.

“I’ve got to go,” says Mrs. Morgan, finishing her coffee in one big gulp. “I promised I’d be in the office early.”

“I’ll leave with you,” says Mr. Morgan, pushing back his chair.

They’re halfway to the door when I clear my throat. “Mom and Dad?”

They turn, expectant. “I just want you to know that I love you. Don’t ever doubt that.” My voice quavers.

They look surprised, but touched. Mrs. Morgan opens her arms, and I fly into them. “Not as much as we love you,” she tells me.

When they leave, I return to Kailey’s room. After this morning, I won’t be back here again. I pull Kailey’s backpack from its hiding place under the bed, then sit on the lime-green bedspread.

I look around the room, taking in Kailey’s things: her paintings, the photos of her and her friends, her clothes, her perfume. I want to thank her for letting me stay here, for letting me live her life, if only for a short time. This room, the color of peacock feathers, is quiet. It’s listening to me. It’s Kailey. What would I say to her, if I could?

Kailey, I never met you, not really, but I know you. I slept in your bed, I wore your white dress. I hope you are free and happy, that you are the color of water—turquoise water, like the walls of your room. That the wind is warm and you are part of it. That you finish your paintings—the sky is your canvas—and you show them to the other ghost girls. That you make more wind chimes, but this time you use the silvery starlight for your bells, that you string them up on soft green vines that never stop flowering. I wish you peace.

I pick up the bottle of jasmine perfume, turning it over in my hands. It feels warm. I hold it to my nose and inhale its sweetness. I add the bottle of perfume to my bag—Kailey would understand.

I stand and leave, closing the door softly. I walk down the hall.

Bryan’s at his computer. He rips off his headphones when I poke my head in.

“Hey,” he greets me. “Is it time to go?”

“No, not yet.” I pause, then simply say: “You should ask out Leyla.”

He blushes. “Yeah? I thought I wasn’t allowed to date your friends.”

I walk over to him and ruffle his hair. “Life is short,” I tell him. “Live a little.”

By late afternoon the fog lies thick over Berkeley, covering everything with its white fingers. But the colors I am able to see are so vivid against its blank backdrop. The light wanes quickly, and by 5:30 it is completely dark. The lamplight inside the antiques shop spills out onto the street like gold. I don’t want to leave. I know what lies ahead of me: cold, swirling mist, the avoidance of well-lit places, the fugitive’s need to keep to the dark. I need this fog; it makes it much easier to disappear.

Noah texts me to let me know he’s on his way to pick me up. I turn off all the lights, all but one—a stained-glass lamp in the window—and lock up the shop. The cash I took from the register—close to five hundred dollars—weighs heavily in my pocket. I promise to send the owner the amount in the mail as soon as I find a new job.

I wait outside, letting the lamp cast its blue-green shadows on my face. The VW’s headlights reach through the fog to me like a path or a hand I could take hold of. Inside the car, Noah is blasting the heater.

“I missed you,” he says.

His words hit me hard, but I force a laugh. “It’s been, what? Three hours?”

“Where do you want to go?” he asks. “We could have a nice dinner.”

“I want to go to San Francisco. Let’s get takeout and sit on the beach.” I never expected to set foot in that city again, but there’s nothing more for me to fear there, now that Cyrus is in Oakland.

“The beach? It’s freezing, Kailey.”

“I’ll keep you warm,” I tell him boldly, arching an eyebrow.

We head into the city, taking it slow across the Bay Bridge. It’s oddly free of traffic, but the fog is even thicker as we drive over the bay. The lights from downtown are smudged and diffuse, and I’m reminded of fireworks, how July in San Francisco is no guarantee against an overcast evening. Revelers on the Fourth, wrapped in warm jackets, with nothing to cheer except muffled booms and the brief suggestion of color in the misty sky. Cyrus hated that. He loved fireworks, but to me, they were too loud, too much like real explosions.

In Richmond, we get dinner from a Thai restaurant and walk toward the beach. The closer we get to the water, the more deserted it feels, like we’re in some sleepy tourist town in winter. The pedestrian traffic and honking horns of downtown feel very far away. We pass apartment buildings and motels that were built in the 1960s, with cheesy names like the Beachcomber and Mermaid’s Cove. The sidewalks grow gritty with sand.

At Ocean Beach, we find the remains of a bonfire that some optimistic person must have built, hoping for a nice evening. Noah disappears for a few minutes and returns with an armful of driftwood.

“I have triumphed,” he informs me. “You shall be warm.” He hunkers down next to me, and we eat coconut rice and stir-fried chicken with spicy chiles and basil, then lean back on one of the logs, bellies satisfied and warm.

I watch his profile in the orange light from the fire. His dark hair grazes his chin, wavy in the damp air and salt. He pushes it back to reveal his strong jaw, his thick brows.
My sea prince,
I think, remembering those hours I spent on the ship from Barbados to New Amsterdam. How close I came to jumping overboard, to chasing a fickle sunbeam down into the deep.

I don’t plan on going into the water. But everyone will need to think I did.

I shiver, and Noah puts his arm around me. “What’s the matter? Someone walked over your grave?”

Yes,
I think.
I did.

A thought occurs to me, a question I need to ask. “Noah, would you still like me if I looked like someone else?”

He sits up and looks me in the eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know—like if I had a completely different body. If I looked like Leyla, maybe. Or Nicole. But I was still me.”

He cups my jaw. “This is a really weird conversation. But okay.” He thinks for a moment. “I’m trying to imagine you with a different face.”

I gaze at him serenely, but he starts laughing. “I can’t do it, Kailey.”

“Okay, fine.” I pretend to pout.

“You want me to be serious? I’m going to be serious. I’ve known you almost my entire life. I probably know your face better then my own. But you have a spark that I’d know anywhere.” He pauses. “So yes, even if you looked different, I’d still love—”

He breaks off, embarrassed. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

“Do you mean it?” I ask, my heart thumping.

He looks down, but I put my hand to his cheek and tilt his eyes back toward me.

“This is no time to leave things unsaid.” Maybe I’ll never have a moment like this again. It isn’t fair to him, I know. But I can’t help it.

He’s staring in the direction of the water, distant waves breaking like static. He won’t look at me, but he takes my hand. It’s enough. It’s a sweet dream I can pull out and examine in the lonely days I know I have ahead.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I allow. “Let’s walk. I want to go look at the Golden Gate Bridge.”

Walking warms us up, but the top of the bridge is whipped by chilling wind. It doesn’t seem to affect the fog, though, which curls around the orange metal structure in wisps. “It’s so far down,” I observe, shivering. I wrap my arm around Noah’s waist.

“Not like you can see anything through this fog,” he adds. Droplets of mist cling to our hair. He shivers. “Let’s go home.”

I take a deep breath. It’s time.

“You can go. I think I’ll stay awhile. I need some time to myself.” I try to make my tone casual, like this was the most normal request in the world.

“What? No. It’s not safe. I’ll stay with you.”

“No, really, Noah. I want to be alone. I’ll be fine.”

“What if something happens to you? No, it’s crazy.” His tone is firm.

“I come out here all the time by myself. Seriously. It’s safer here than it is in Berkeley.” I try to sound confident.

“How will you get home?” he worries.

“I think I know how to call a cab,” I say drily. “I’m a big girl.”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right to me, leaving you here with no one to take care of you.” His voice is uncertain now. I sense a crack in his armor.

“I don’t need any boy to take care of me,” I say sharply. “Do you think I’m really that weak?”

“No, of course not.” He smiles. “That’s one of the last words I’d use to describe you.”

“Then let me do what I want. I promise I’ll be safe.”

“Okay . . . I guess, if you really want to be by yourself. But you have to text me the minute you get home so I know you’re safe.” He pulls me close to him, and I bury my face in his chest. I listen to his heart.

In a tiny voice I whisper the words that I want to say. “I love you, too.” His arms tighten around me, and I feel one small tear threatening to escape my eye, but I blink it back.

I feel his hands on my shoulders, and I look up. I find his lips and kiss him. “Go,” I tell him, tearing myself away.

“I wish you were coming with me,” he says.

I do, too.

“I had fun tonight, Noah.”

“Text me,” he repeats. “As soon as you’re home.”

“I will,” I lie.

He reluctantly walks away, leaving me alone on the bridge. I have to bite my lip to keep myself from calling out to him, to keep myself from crying.
Please don’t leave me.
But he honors my wishes, and I watch him disappear in the fog.

I wait for a long time before taking action. I need to be sure Noah’s far away from the scene of Kailey’s death so there’s no chance he’ll be implicated.

I walk near the railing and listen for the sound of the water below. I imagine falling for real, the welcoming arms of the water as it would pull me under, down into the world of shipwrecks and silvery, silent fish.

Don’t be silly
, I tell myself. There would be nothing soft about that water at all.

But maybe if I jump, the wind will catch me up like a bird, or I’ll sprout wings and fly, like Kailey in the portrait of herself as an angel. It’s almost time for me to send my message to Kailey’s mother. But not yet. I close my eyes and wait, thinking about the one person I know who actually can fly: Amelia.

It was in Brooklyn, 1913. Cyrus took me to the circus. I held my breath as the tiny blond acrobat leaped from a swinging trapeze and landed on the high-wire tightrope, strung at a neck-craning distance across the tent’s ceiling. The crowd erupted in applause as the ringmaster cried out, “The beautiful, the amazing, Lady Amelia defies death! See her fly without wings!”

“I wish he would shut up,” Cyrus murmured next to me.

“Yes. What if the noise makes her fall?” I worried.

“Impossible,” Cyrus said breathlessly and with admiration. “She really is a bird.”

As if she could hear us, Amelia coiled her muscles, jumping off the tightrope and spinning backward in the air before landing on her feet. I squinted—she did have feathers in her hair, jewel-toned peacock plumes pinned at each temple, as well as gathered at her tiny wrists.

After the performance, Cyrus dragged me through the dusty fairgrounds till we found her trailer, its side decorated with a painting of a winged woman reclining in a giant nest. She answered our knock wearing an iridescent silky robe that shimmered between purple and green, and I could tell by the way she coyly cooed Cyrus’s name that they had met before.

From a distance I had first mistaken her for a child. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, with impossibly slender limbs and fine, pointed features. Her white-blond hair hung around her face in a feathery shag. I reached up and touched my own smooth chestnut hair, which was carefully styled in pin curls. I felt too coiffed, too earthbound. She was a wild thing, and I wanted to be like her.