The Alchemy of Forever

dark circles under her eyes call attention to the shallow lines at their corners. Following her is a rugged-looking man, blond hair mixing well with the gray threads in his sideburns. He looks as sleep deprived as the woman.
    “Kailey! Oh, thank God!” The woman pulls me into a tight hug, then leans back to look at me. I recoil slightly. “What happened?” The couple, along with the nurse, waits for my answer.
    “Um . . . there was . . . a dog. I didn’t want to hit it.” My new voice is high-pitched, a far cry from my last body’s throaty cadence.
    Kailey’s father winces. “Oh, Kailes.”
    The woman tucks a stray curl behind my ear. “Your brother’s down in the cafeteria. I don’t know how he can think of food right now—” Her voice breaks off as a boy enters the room. He is lanky and looks slightly older than Kailey, with the same dark blond hair and bronzed skin.
    “Thanks for trashing my car, sis,” he says. His tone is casual, but I can tell from his bloodshot eyes that he’s been crying.
    “I’m sorry,” I say distractedly, my mind fixed on the untenable situation I’ve woken up to and on my bag, vulnerable and exposed, with its dangerous secrets.
    “Bryan,” Kailey’s mom says warningly.
    He holds up his hands and grins. “Kidding!” Then his expression turns serious. “What were you doing in Jack London anyway? It’s dangerous down there. I thought you had that art gallery thing in Berkeley.”
    My eyes dart between Bryan and Kailey’s parents, who lean in expectantly. What can I say? I was trying to end my unnaturally long life, then when I tried to save your daughter, I accidentally took her body? “I . . . yes. I did. And . . . I—” The heart-rate monitor beeps at a faster pace.
    Just in time, a young doctor in a white coat knocks on the doorframe, then comes in without waiting for a response. I lean back on the bed and force myself to take deep, calming breaths. “I’m sorry. I feel really dizzy right now.”
    The doctor elbows past Kailey’s mother and waves a pen flashlight quickly in front of both of my eyes. He returns it to his pocket with a blank expression and consults my chart.
    “When can we take her home?” Mrs. Morgan asks.
    My heart sinks. Home? The only place I want to go is back to the cranes to get my bag. After that . . . I shake my head. Then what? Waking up as a teenager with a loving family is so far out of my plan, I can’t even begin to contemplate my next move. Hot tears sting the back of my eyes, and I look up at the ceiling, forcing them back.
    I’d been so ready to let go, but here I am, in the body of girl whose family doesn’t even know she’s dead. The rational part of me knows that there was no way Kailey could have survived that crash, but the guilt that I have taken yet another life is overwhelming. The heart-rate monitor picks up once more with my swell of emotion, and I focus on taking deep, calming breaths.
    “Normally I’d want to keep any patient who’d been in a serious crash overnight,” the doctor says with a frown, “but all her tests have come back normal. There’s nothing physically wrong with your daughter.” He checks my pulse. “To be in an accident like that and come away without a scratch, it’s . . . unbelievable. Do you know what a miracle it is that you are alive?”
    I blink my new eyes. “Trust me, I know.”

ten
     
    I stare through the station wagon window as the Morgans’ car pulls up to a single-story Craftsman house in North Berkeley. It looks like a fairy-tale cottage, set back from the street and surrounded by redwood trees, a colorful herb garden poking up in front of its old, leaded-glass windows. As Bryan and his parents walk through the heavy oak front door, I pause on the porch, listening to the low tones of junk-sculpture wind chimes jingling in the breeze. The chimes are beautiful, made of antique silver spoons, pieces of jewelry, skeleton keys, and dried bones.
    Entering Kailey’s house feels horribly wrong. I’ve taken more lives than I can count in the years since I left my original body, but never have I stayed around to see the life the person left behind.
    Bryan turns and looks at me. “What’s up? You waiting for a hand-delivered invitation?”
    I force a weak smile. “Give a concussed girl a minute to smell the roses,” I say lightly as I step through the threshold onto a vintage hardwood floor inlaid with a dark walnut border. In front of me is the living room, where