The Alchemy of Forever (9 page)

I get off the train in downtown Oakland, and the scent of fetid water and rotting produce surrounds me as I walk toward Jack London Square. The area is much busier during the day—trucks parked in front of loading docks, men hoisting boxes of melons, tourists gingerly making their way down to the waterfront. The sun has broken through the clouds and warms the top of my head, and I’m surprised to find myself smiling—it has been so long since I’ve felt anything other than cold.

My pace quickens as I near the docks. In the distance I see the bar where I’d met Taryn; it looks even more dilapidated during the day. Paint is peeling off the storefront in long strips and the sunlight catches on windows covered in a film of dust. Just beyond that is the side street where I parked my car and the crane where I so stupidly left my bag.

Just as I reach the intersection, I realize with a start that a police car is parked at the curb about fifty feet in front of me. I freeze, blood draining from my face. Rationally, there’s no reason for the police to be looking for me—for Kailey—but still. In my mind there is a giant sign over my head proclaiming
MURDERER
.

You were trying to save her!
I remind myself, pleading with my feet to take casual strides. I feel a prickling sensation as the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I don’t turn around, even though I’m certain the officer is following me. Instead, I walk faster, just short of a run. A glance in the side mirror of a parked car confirms my fear: The police car is trailing behind me.

I duck into an alleyway and hide in the doorway of an industrial garage. I hold my breath and cross my fingers, hoping the cop will drive past. After a beat he does, and I exhale with relief.

A hand falls on my shoulder. “Do you need something?”

My heart in my throat, I whirl around and find myself staring at a thin-lipped construction worker. “N-No,” I stammer, and take off once more. But when I reach the side street where I had parked my car, I stop short. There are dark brown drips on the asphalt, drips that might look like oil stains to anyone else. But I know they’re blood. Kailey’s blood. And the black tire tracks are still there, like scars, on the surface of the road.

The car is gone.

Panic courses through my veins, but I force myself to take a deep breath.
It was probably just towed
, I remind myself
. There was nothing in it that tied it to you, except fingerprints from a body that is now dust.

These thoughts aren’t reassuring, and dropping all pretenses, I sprint to the crane and start climbing the ladder. My foot slips on the second rung from the top, and I let out a loud gasp as I nearly lose my grip. Clinging to the bars, I regain my footing and hoist myself onto the top of the structure.

The wind up here is forceful, bringing with it a far-off giggle and a loud, catcalling whistle. But I hear nothing, feel nothing, because just like my car, the bag is gone.

At that moment a gray cloud blots out the sun and it begins to rain. As the steady stream soaks through Kailey’s hair, dampening her loose curls, panic fills my body. This cannot be happening. That bag had everything in it—my old ID, my money, Cyrus’s book.

Taryn.

I sink to my knees. She was an addict and after six hundred years of observing human behavior, I can picture the scene too well. After seeing my body disintegrate into dust—something she would not be sure was a drug-induced hallucination—she climbed back up the crane, looking for the angel who tried to save her. Instead she found the bag, which contained car keys, money, a brand-new identity, and a strange old book.

The horn of a boat in the harbor emits a mournful cry, a crane nearby groans to life, and the smell of rotting lettuce assaults my nostrils. What will Taryn do with the book? My mind catalogs a million possibilities. She could try to sell it to a rare-books dealer when she runs out of money and needs her next score. It could end up in police custody if she’s arrested—or dies from an overdose.

Or worse, maybe she already tweeted a picture of it, along with a post about how someone in Jack London Square gave a teenage girl CPR, then turned to dust, giving Cyrus a roadmap to find me in 140 characters or less. No doubt Cyrus would be prowling the Internet for any mention of me, for any hint that I could still be alive. And Jared, as penance for losing me in the crowd, would go to the ends of the Earth to bring me back.

I don’t know what it means that I am still alive right now and whether I should keep this new, healthy body or dive into the harbor to finish what I started last night. But I do know one thing: I am never, ever going back to Cyrus. And if I can help it, Cyrus will never find his book.

I scale back down the ladder, jumping onto the pavement when I’m still four rungs from the ground. Ignoring the burning pain this ignites in my shins, I push my legs fast, making a sharp right onto Second Street and dashing toward the bar. Maybe the bartender there knows Taryn, and if I could get her last name, I could track her down.

I am thirty feet from the saloon when the wail of police sirens pierces the air. My forehead is covered in a fine mist of sweat, my stomach clenches, and I feel the precursor to an anguished cry choke my throat. I consider making a break for it, but I’ll never be able to outrun a police car. So I stop in my tracks, panting as I watch the officer who had been following me earlier get out of his vehicle and walk toward me.

“Excuse me, miss,” he says, “but shouldn’t you be in school?”

Bending at the waist to catch my breath, I swallow a stream of curse words. I had forgotten how young I look in this sixteen-year-old body. The backpack isn’t helping, either.

“N-No, sir,” I stammer. My mouth feels stuffed with cotton. “I’m on my way to work. I don’t have class at the university until tomorrow.” It’s a plausible lie—UC Berkeley isn’t far and being a college student would certainly explain the backpack.

“Sure you do,” he says, with a withering smile. “Let me see your ID.”

“Oh. Um, I don’t have it with me,” I try.

“I mean it, miss. Hand it over.”

I feel my face go hot and have no words as I open the bag and hand over Kailey’s driver’s license. He looks at it for a long time, then shakes his head.

“Get in.” He nods toward the police car.

“Why?” I ask.

“I won’t make you ride in the back, but we need to go to the station where we’ll call your parents.”

Oh my God, the Morgans. The last thing they need is to think their daughter, who they almost lost yesterday, has turned into a delinquent overnight.

“Please, sir,” I beg. “Please don’t call them. I promise I’ll never skip school again.”

The officer smiles ruefully. “Do you know what your problem is, Kailey?”

My problems would fill his citations notebook and make him question everything he thinks he knows about the world, but I keep my mouth shut.

“Your problem,” he continues when I don’t respond, “is that you’re a terrible liar.”

The station smells like old coffee and men’s cologne, and the fluorescent lights overhead turn my hands a sickly shade of yellow green. I am sitting on one of the hard plastic chairs behind the reception desk when the entire Morgan family walks in. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan won’t look at me, but Bryan raises his eyebrows with grudging respect.

The officer pulls Kailey’s parents into a private room to talk to them, and Bryan takes a seat next to me. “I had no idea you were such a badass,” he whispers.

I don’t say anything—I just shake my head slowly. He elbows me in the side, and I allow a small smile.

Mr. and Mrs. Morgan exit the conference room, both of them tight-lipped and still refusing to make eye contact. Mr. Morgan’s face stands in flushed contrast to Mrs. Morgan’s ashen pallor, but I can tell they’re both furious.

As soon as we pull out of the parking lot, the floodgates open.

“First we have to come pick you up at the hospital, and then at the police station. What’s next? The morgue?” Mr. Morgan explodes, banging his hands on the steering wheel for emphasis.

I flinch at the word “morgue,” where this body should be right now. Before I can answer, Mrs. Morgan sighs. “Honestly, I blame myself. We’ve been entirely too permissive.”

“No!” Mr. Morgan snaps. “This is not our fault. Kailey, the officer told me you
lied
to him. Sneaking off is one thing, but I thought we raised you to always tell the truth.” He frowns. “I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Where were you even going?” Mrs. Morgan demands. “Does this have something to do with why you were there on Saturday night?”

“I, um,” I hesitate. Why
would
Kailey have been down there that night?

I glance at Bryan, who’s enjoying this way too much. I shoot him a poisonous look, but he just smiles wider.

“I’m painting the cranes,” I finally finish. “It’s my new project.”

“At night?” Mr. Morgan says skeptically.

“You’re grounded, of course,” says Mrs. Morgan, watching us in the rearview mirror. Bryan smirks. “For two whole weeks, if not longer.”

Mr. Morgan nods vigorously. “No going
anywhere
but school. And no TV.”

They continue to berate me the entire way home, but I tune them out, instead focusing on the whisper of an idea that’s taken root ever since the police officer slammed the door of his car on me.

Every push I’ve made to end my life has been thwarted. Every single one. It could be simple incompetence—after all, I’ve been with Cyrus for six hundred years, and I should expect some hiccups making my way through the world alone. But then I think of the night I switched into Kailey’s body, of the vision of my mother whispering,
Not yet
, and it feels like something, or someone, doesn’t want me to die.

I think of the disgusted expression Cyrus would wear if I said such a thing to him. Cyrus doesn’t believe in fate or anything at all beyond the physical world that he moves through so certainly.
Modern science is the child of alchemy
, he’d say.
All magic has a rational explanation.

The hairs on my arm stand up as I consider that the universe might be trying to tell me something. As much as I think Cyrus is close minded in his staunch rejection of anything resembling spirituality, I have to admit that I’ve never actually witnessed anything to convince me otherwise. I’ve never seen a ghost, never heard a prophecy, never really believed in anything beyond this life. But now, as I’ve tried to leave it, I feel as if I’m brushing up against an invisible hand that is steering my course.

And though the body I’m in now is completely different from any other I’ve ever occupied, its heart beats as surely as any other’s, reminding me with each thud that I am very much alive.
Maybe
, the voice whispers,
you should stay that way.

I shift in my seat, the seat belt scraping my neck, and train my eyes out the window. I pull Kailey’s hat down over my ears and close my eyes, letting the sun wash over my eyelids. I don’t know the specifics of my plan, but I’ve come to a decision.

I’m not going to end my life. Not right away. I am not this family’s daughter, but I owe them a debt. I will stay here, pretend to be Kailey, and figure how I can bring the Morgans peace. I will try to track down Taryn so I can find and destroy the book. And I will work on my plan of escape. Today’s events tell me it won’t be easy—My car is missing, I have no money, and I have no idea if Cyrus is on my trail, but thanks to Kailey’s healthy body, I have some time to figure it all out.

After a stone-silent family dinner, I return to Kailey’s room, close the door behind me, and immediately boot up her laptop. I try every possible search for Taryn—Facebook, MySpace. I Google “Taryn + Berkeley,” “Taryn + Saloon,” “Taryn + black hair,” but my attempts yield nothing. I next turn my attention to the saloon, finding a phone number listed on Yelp.

It rings twice. “Hi, is Taryn there tonight?”

“Who?” the man on the other end barks.

“Taryn. She’s a patron—she was there two nights ago,” I say, wondering if I’m speaking to the man who had studied my ID before begrudgingly serving me.

“Taryn?”

“Yes! She has black hair—”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about,” the man interrupts, then the line goes dead. I stare at the phone for a few seconds, disappointment mingling with frustration. Now that I’m grounded, it will be difficult to get back to the bar to ask more questions in person.

But Taryn’s not the only person I have to find. I need to learn every detail of Kailey’s life if I’m going to pull off living as her. I look around the room, pondering the best way to prepare myself.

Considering her artistic skill, I am betting there is a diary around here somewhere. I approach the bed and reach between the mattress and the box spring, but come up empty.

My eyes are drawn to a framed print to the right of the vanity. It’s of a young girl wearing a wreath of flowers, a silvery crescent moon rising behind her. She holds one hand to her mouth as though she’s afraid to speak.

I gently lift the frame off the wall, feeling its uneven heft. Turning it around, I see that a sketchbook has been tucked into the gap between the frame and the wall. Bingo.

Sitting at her desk, I thumb through the pages. I feel guilty, like I’m spying, but looking at her artwork, I can almost sense her presence. It comes through so strongly. I feel like she’d want me to look at these, that she’d want me to recognize what she lost.

They are mostly portraits: a drawing of her mother in their garden, of Bryan tying his shoes, a wry expression on his face. She had a remarkable ability to capture the essence of their personalities with the smallest of details. This was her language, I realize. This was her way of interacting with, and chronicling, the world.