The Alchemy of Forever

art supplies or clothes. Your choice.”
    I fear that I’d appear hopelessly unsure of myself at the art supply store. “Clothes,” I answer quickly. “I’ll go get my jacket.”
    This will be the last time Mrs. Morgan ever gets to hang out with her daughter, so I have to make every second count.

twenty-six
     
    We drive to Fourth Street in Berkeley and wander among the boutiques and well-heeled shoppers. The air is crisp, carrying salt from the nearby bay. People say that there aren’t seasons in California, but they’re wrong. Seasons here are simply more subtle—a small shift I notice in the details. The angle of the sun in the sky, the dryness of the wind, the crispness of the leaves.
    We pass a shop and I pause, struck by the display in the window. The mannequins are wearing normal clothes, but the scene around them is magical: a glittery forest that teems with color, small lights shimmering in the fake branches. On closer inspection, I notice that the mannequins have antlers growing out from their long hair, entwined with flowers.
    I know Kailey would have loved it, this intersection of the real world and the magical. “You want to go in?” Mrs. Morgan asks, with a knowing smile. I nod.
    The interior is softly lit, a kaleidoscope of soft fabrics and patterns, candles and locket necklaces, lace dresses and oxford shoes.
    I’m immediately drawn to a lemon yellow tunic, but Mrs. Morgan shakes her head. “Cute, but that color won’t look good on you.” I glance down at my arms and laugh. She’s right. I think it would have complemented the olive-hued skin of my last incarnation, but I don’t have the eye for color that Kailey did.
    She pulls a dusty-rose–colored dress from the rack and holds it up to me, nodding. I give up browsing on my own and follow her around the store, trusting her choices, till my arms are full of clothes. “What happened to automatically rejecting anything your mom suggests?” she asks playfully.
    “Remember when I had purple hair?” I ask. “That was all me, right?”
    “Good point,” she answers.
    A saleswoman tucks me away in a dressing room, and Mrs. Morgan waits outside on a damasked sofa under a twinkling chandelier. I pull on a deep green top that’s softly gathered at the neckline, trimmed in gray embroidery. Suddenly Kailey’s eyes look vibrant and sparkly. Stepping outside, I model the top for Mrs. Morgan, who nods with a satisfied smile. “I knew that would fit,” she says.
    Next is a scarlet dress, vaguely vintage-looking, fitted around the bodice with cap sleeves and pockets in its full skirt. I come out and Mrs. Morgan frowns. “I don’t think you tied the back right,” she says, stepping behind me to fix the sash. I watch her in a mirror.
    “Mom?”
    “Yeah?” I can feel her fussing with the dress.
    “What was your relationship with your mom like?”
    She looks up, surprised, and catches my eye. “Oh, that. Well. You already know the story.” She finishes with the back of the dress. “There, now turn around.” I do as instructed. “Hmm,” she ruminates. “I think this one is a no. Any dress that your mother has to tie for you is too complicated.”
    I step toward the dressing room but turn around. “Will you tell it again? The story about your mother?”
    She blinks and turns toward the window. “It was a long time ago.” I don’t move, waiting. “Okay, Kailey. As you know, I left home when I was sixteen. But I never told you that I ran away. I didn’t think of it that way at the time—I was just going on a trip with my friends. My parents were so controlling, they never would have let me go. So, I just left.”
    I sit next to her on the sofa. She looks at her own reflection in the full-length mirror. “I was young. I wanted to see America. I wanted to get out of Milwaukee.”
    She turns to me. “And what I didn’t realize is that my mother was out of her mind. She thought I was dead. She called the police, had everyone looking for me.”
    “And then?” I say softly.
    “And then, while I was away . . . she died. She had a brain aneurysm. She never knew that I was okay.” She reaches out and tucks one of my curls behind my ear. “And that’s why I’ve always let you do what you wanted. Maybe it wasn’t the best decision.” Her gray-green eyes shine with unshed tears, and I feel my own grow wet.
    “Do you ladies need any help?” The saleswoman’s voice is annoyingly cheerful.
    “We’re fine, thanks,” says Mrs.