The Alchemy of Forever (13 page)

There’s a phenomenon that humans talk about, of seeing your life flash before your eyes in the moments before death. Of course, I have no way of knowing whether this is true or not. But I have the eerie sensation that, if it’s true, I’m seeing what Kailey saw in those fiery, bloody, painful moments as she lay in the wreckage of her car.

“You know I’m going to miss you,” Mrs. Morgan says, shaking her head.

My chest pounds. “Wh-what do you mean?” I stammer.

“College, Kailey. It’s coming soon.”

I force a hollow laugh. “That’s not for two more years.”

She pushes my bangs out of my face. “You’re young. When you’re my age, you’ll realize two years is nothing. Over in an instant.”

She kisses me on the forehead, and I give her a hug, feeling another wave of guilt. She’s right. Two years is a drop of water in the ocean. And Kailey will be gone from her life much sooner than that. I’m surprised to find I’m as sad for her as I am for myself at the thought of leaving—though I’ve only lived with the Morgans for a few days, in an odd way, they feel more like family than the coven ever did.

I’m staring at the stars on Kailey’s ceiling Thursday night when I hear footsteps in the hallway and whip my head toward the door. It opens a crack and Bryan pops in his head. “Get your stuff,” he hisses. “I’m breaking you outta here!”

“Seriously?” I say, startled.

“Yes, get dressed!”

We drive into the Oakland hills, and the neighborhood goes from urban to forest astonishingly quickly. The house is a modern version of the forest cottage, all straight lines and glass walls, but somehow perfectly situated in an ancient redwood grove. Inside, kids are drinking beer out of red plastic cups and dancing to the pulse of electro music from Dawson’s stereo.

Emerald City was the last party I attended—the jeans and plaid, pearl-buttoned cotton shirt I wear now are a far cry from my silk dress.

“Kailey! I thought you were still grounded!” Leyla wraps me in a tight hug, spilling a bit of beer on my sleeve. She’s wearing a raspberry-pink eyelet dress over cherry-colored tights. Her hair is piled on her head, loose magenta-hued ringlets falling on her shoulders. She looks like a valentine.

“I am,” I explain into her shoulder.

“I broke her out of the joint,” adds Bryan, his gray-green eyes sparkling.

“You’re like Robin Hood, bringing my best friend to me,” Leyla tells Bryan, releasing me.

Bryan furrows his brow. “Did Robin Hood break people out of prison?”

Leyla shrugs, then takes a sip of her beer. “We’re in the forest, aren’t we? Let’s get you two something to drink.”

She takes Bryan’s hand and leads him into the kitchen. He swivels his head and looks at me with an expression that says
This girl’s crazy
, but I can tell he doesn’t mind. I follow them to the keg, where someone places one of the red plastic cups in my hands, and a boy I don’t know fills it with beer. “Hey, Kailey,” he says.

“Hey.” This is, I’ve realized in the few days since I’ve been Kailey, the most valuable word I know.

Bryan and Leyla are still chatting away, and with a trace of amusement I realize I am the third wheel. I can tell she likes him, and I suspect the feeling is mutual.

I sip the beer, enjoying the tingly path it clears through my belly. On the far side of the room, near the sink, I spot Noah. He’s talking to a girl whose back is turned to me, but I recognize the long, shiny brown hair. Nicole. His gaze flits upward momentarily, as though he can feel me looking at him, and he smiles at me. He tucks a loose lock of his hair behind his ear, and I’m struck by how good-looking he is.

I’m surprised to feel my heart tug across my chest, like a needle scratching a record. I try to return the smile, but feel the unmistakable beginnings of a blush beginning to creep across my face, and I end up giving a curt nod before turning away. I try to appear occupied, studying the lip of my cup with great intensity. I don’t see anyone else familiar in the kitchen, so I open the sliding glass door and step outside.

The backyard is nothing but wild forest, redwood trees leading the eye upward, beyond their canopy, to the stars beyond. A few hundred feet from the house, up a fern-lined path, is a huge fire pit. An acoustic band plays music that wouldn’t have sounded out of place coming from a traveling Romany caravan. I approach the fire.

There’s a girl playing the accordion, her dreadlocked hair pulled back in two pigtails on the side of her head. A fake flower is pinned to the strap of her suspenders. She has two bandmates: a boy wearing a battered cowboy hat is playing violin, and another boy with stretched earlobes and a shaved head is picking at a banjo. They’re playing the Grateful Dead song “Friend of the Devil,” but slowed down, and I realize the song isn’t jaunty; it’s a lament.

Set out runnin’, but I take my time.

Amen
, I think.

There’s a huge fallen log nearby, and I seat myself on it, watching the fire. Chantal walks up to me, followed by Madison, and the contrast between the two of them makes me laugh. Chantal’s hair is pulled back in a neat chignon, and she’s wearing a spotless pale-blue wool coat. She sits gingerly next to me on the log, gesturing for Madison to sit next to her. Madison’s shaggy hair hangs in her face; she tosses it back as she pulls a flask out of her leather jacket. She smirks at Chantal, who still seems uncomfortable.

“Just get into it, Chantal. It’s okay to get dirt on your coat.” Madison takes a swig from her flask, offering it to me.

“Shut up, Maddy,” Chantal says affectionately. “The things I endure for a bonfire.” She sighs.

Madison pokes her in the arm. “You’re full of it. You just wanted to come out here to see if you could find Dawson.” She turns to me in explanation. “No one’s seen him.”

“Well, can you blame me? He’s adorable,” Chantal admits, patting her hair. Madison flashes me a smug smile.

I stop listening when Noah walks up to the fire, Nicole behind him. When she sees me, she grabs his hand. I pretend not to notice, watching the flames.

When Noah spots me he drops Nicole’s hand. She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she says icily. “But we’re so glad you made it.” Her smile is insincere.

“Yes, I can tell just how glad you are,” I say, smiling just as insincerely. I don’t know what this girl’s deal is, but I don’t like her.

Nicole rolls her eyes and takes a seat on a nearby log.

I lean my head back and watch the tops of the trees. They sway in the darkness and I imagine them creaking and croaking in rusty tones. Oddly, these trees have been around as long as I have. It’s a humbling thought.

“Can I see the violin?” I ask the cowboy-hatted boy, between songs. He agrees and hands it to me. Nicole looks incredulous.

I hold the base to my chin and draw the bow across the strings, playing a few experimental notes. “Whoa,” says Chantal.

“I’ve been practicing,” I explain, remembering the violin in Kailey’s room. I begin to play a song, the name of which I do not know. It’s a traditional Irish lament, and reminds me of Charlotte.

The notes weave with the occasional snap of sparks from the fire, rising toward the trees on wisps of smoke. I keep saying the wrong things, and I’m happy to leave words behind for a little while. I finish the song, and hear a small click. I look up at Noah, who’s holding his camera. Nicole looks ready to kill.

I hear clapping from the path. “Bravo, Kailey!” says Leyla, approaching the fire, Bryan at her side. “That was really beautiful. But also a huge downer. This is a party, not a funeral.”

I laugh, and hand the violin back to the boy in the band. She’s right. Leyla sits next to me on the log. “I have a very somber personality,” I tell her.

“Yeah, right.” She throws an arm around my shoulder. Chantal spots the elusive Dawson and heads off to speak with him, and Noah takes the empty spot on the other side of me. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but it seems like he’s sitting very close. I can feel the heat of his body next to me, but I don’t move away.

I feel strange, but in a good way. I almost can’t believe I’m the same person who was ready to die only a couple of days ago. That emotion feels so far away now, like it belonged to someone else. I feel a smile playing across my lips. Could it be that I’m actually happy? I don’t trust the feeling enough to call it permanent. But now, surrounded by people, by laughter—I don’t care if it’s fleeting. I grab hold of it, letting it buoy me like the friends who sit on either side of me, like the bonfire that heats my face, warming me to my core.

The next week passes easily. I still think of Cyrus and worry about what he might be doing to find me or how he’s treating Charlotte. But as my daily checking of the Internet for mention of my car, Taryn, or the book yields nothing, I find myself slipping into the rhythms of Kailey’s world more comfortably.

Noah drives Bryan and me to school every day. Whether it’s rainy or sunny, foggy or brisk, we leave the windows down, and Noah turns up the music to drown out the sound of the VW’s strained engine. I don’t know any of the bands, but he tells me their names: Arcade Fire, Bon Iver, Fleet Foxes. The music has banjos and harmonies and a rawness that was entirely absent from Cyrus’s incessant techno—he loved modern architecture with its cold geometry and music that was composed on computers. But there was something more human about an acoustic guitar and drums that were played with one’s body. Riding in the backseat of Noah’s car with the wind in my face and the songs in my head, I want the school to be farther away so the trip will be longer.

The following Wednesday is slow at the antiques shop, so I blast Billie Holiday records on the store’s sound system and watch the rain streaming down the windows. I amuse myself by looking at a stack of daguerreotype portraits in brass cases. They’re black and white, but some of them have intensely colored rainbowed edges, an artifact of the plate-making process.

All of these people have been dead a long time. There’s one girl who looks a little like Charlotte, except her hair is far too orderly, parted severely in the middle and hanging around her face in perfect ringlets. I know it’s not her, but I bring it over to the cash register so I can look at it while I work.

Thinking about Charlotte is painful. I miss her so much, and I’m worried about her as well. Has she managed to keep her head down, to avoid Cyrus’s wrath? I comfort myself with the knowledge that, above all, she’s a survivor.

I set the portrait down and wander over to a piano, idly playing a few mindless notes. I haven’t fully acknowledged a feeling that’s been growing inside me, but I can feel it now, like a knock at the door, insisting to be recognized, to be dealt with.

“I wish I could just stay here.” I whisper it softly. There’s no one around to hear me, so I repeat myself.

I snap my head up at the jangling sound of bells from the front door. It’s Noah, dripping wet and holding his camera in a plastic bag.

I can’t help but laugh. “You don’t have an umbrella, but you put your camera in a little poncho?”

“Priorities,” he says, unzipping his sopping-wet black sweatshirt. “Plus, my folks were screaming at each other again. I didn’t feel like going back in for an umbrella.”

I take his sweatshirt from him and hang it on a worn oak coatrack. “You should stay here and keep me company,” I say, standing close to him. I’m overwhelmed again by how tall he feels when I’m next to him, and feel a blush begin to bloom on my face. I look away, embarrassed.

Noah takes in the store. It’s a jumbled, cozy place, warm with an orange glow from the many Tiffany-style stained-glass lamps. There are rows of leather-bound books, racks of clothes, worn velvet sofas, out-of-tune guitars, and piles of old photographs. I show him the daguerreotypes, and he lights up.

“Today any old jackass can take a picture with their cell phone, but back then it was like having your portrait painted.” I like the passion in his voice.

At the back of the store he stops in front of a display of old hats—elaborate women’s felt hats, their feathers slightly dusty, and men’s top hats and fedoras. He picks up a 1920s cloche with white silk flowers on one side and sets it on my head. I regard myself in the filmy mirror and giggle—I think I actually owned a hat like this back when they were in fashion.

Noah aims his camera and snaps my photo, but frowns. “I think you need to stop smiling,” he tells me. “All those old-fashioned people are always so serious.” I try to oblige, but a grin keeps working its way onto my lips.

“Nope,” he says, looking at the photo on the LED display. “You’d never make it in the olden days. You’re way too modern and smiley.” This just makes me giggle more.

“Here, let me take a photo of you.” I pick up a top hat and set it on his head. He hands me the camera, and I take a few shots. I inspect my work. His expression is far off, soulful. “Pretty good,” I tell him. “But I think the T-shirt ruins it.”

“Right,” he says. “I think a hat like this needs a tuxedo.”

The jangle of bells from the front door startles me, and I bump into a dresser covered with perfume bottles. One of them falls to the floor before I can catch it, and shatters.

“Damnit, Sera!” I sigh under my breath.

“Who?” asks Noah.

Panic grips me. “What?”

“You just said a name—Who was that?” He kneels over and starts picking up the glass.

“Um. Nobody. Be right back.” I race to the front of the store to help the customer. There are two girls bent over one of the jewelry cases. “Can I help—?” I begin, but my voice catches in my throat when I see Nicole. The look on her face tells me she hadn’t expected to see me either. I don’t recognize the other girl.

“Hey, Nicole,” I say, trying to sound friendly.

“Hey.” Her voice is flat. Her eyes widen, and I look behind me to see Noah approaching. The smile fades from his face when he sees Nicole.

“Anyway, Kailey, I gotta go. Thanks for showing me around. Good to see you, Nicole.” He grabs his sweatshirt and is out the door.