The Alchemy of Forever

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.”

thirty-three
     
    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