The Chaos of Stars Page 3

  I stand in front of Osiris, who doesn’t respond. I clear my throat.

  “Father? Father!”

  Nothing changes. Anger flares up in my chest, and I’m tempted to grab one of his silly staffs and knock off his stupid crown with it. But I don’t want to touch him, not when he’s like this, so far removed from me. So . . . dead.

  “OSIRIS.”

  Finally he blinks, eyes slowly focusing on me. “Child. You’ve come back?”

  Ah, floods, he thinks I’m here to work on my tomb. I straighten my shoulders. “I’m leaving. Going to live with Sirus because Isis thinks it’s not safe here for me until after she has the baby.” I pause, but he doesn’t react. He could still blow this whole thing for me. “Er, if it’s okay with you.”

  I think for a minute that there’s a trace of sadness in his eyes, but then again, he always looks serious and mournful. He nods slowly. “If that is the path your mother feels is best. But you will return home when the time comes?”

  It’s physically painful to hold back my eye roll, but I can control my attitude long enough to get out of here. “Yup, sure, I’ll be back.”

  He nods, satisfied. “Go well, little one.”

  That’s it? I just told him I’m leaving to live somewhere else, and all I get is a go well? I thought I’d be elated, but instead I’m disappointed. “Are you going to miss me at all?”

  He smiles, his stiff features resisting the movement. “We will have eternity. I can let you go for these few heartbeats.”

  No. Once I step out that door, I’m gone forever.

  A small, aching part of me is sure my parents won’t care either way. They won’t notice that I never come back. They’ll probably forget my name. Maybe my father already has.

  I turn around and leave, glancing back and hating myself for it. His eyes have gone blank, seeing only his real home, the real world he loves. Chaos take him. I’m done.

  I play in the sand on the banks of the Nile, scratching out the glyphs I’m just barely learning while my mother searches for the best reeds and dirt for our spells that day. A shadow blocks the sun and I look up to see tall, tall Anubis.

  “Hello, whelp of Isis,” he says, and I admire his teeth and wish mine were sharper. My new front ones are starting to grow in, but they’re just big and bumpy.

  “Hi.”

  “Do you know how to swim?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Time to learn!” He picks me up, lifting me high, so high in the air, and then throws me straight out into the middle of the river before I can even process what is happening.

  I sink. I’ve never been in the water without my mother before, and she isn’t here, and I don’t know what to do without her. I look wildly around, the water murky and stinging my eyes, but I know if I wait, my mother will come for me.

  She has to. She always comes for me.

  When my chest hurts so much I want to cry and I can’t hold my breath any longer, the water turns inky, creeping black.

  No hands pull me out. Hands were supposed to come—they came, I remember they came, but . . .

  Everything turns black, and I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t—

  Chapter 3

  Amun-Re ruled over the other gods, preeminent and most powerful. But someone needed to fill the throne of god-king of Egypt, where war and cannibalism reigned supreme. The country needed peace.

  Osiris was made god-king of Egypt, with Isis (who still talks about how fabulous her outfits were during this era) by his side. Together they taught the people proper worship and ushered in an era of unprecedented order.

  Probably they should have worried more about how his brother, Set, god of chaos, would feel about this turn of events.

  I SHIVER IN THE EXCESSIVE AIR-CONDITIONING of the San Diego airport. Everything is shiny and sleek and cool, all white and chrome and lifeless. Neon signs for food that makes my stomach turn with its smell flash at me as I hurry down the huge hall, looking for the exit. For a few seconds I long to be on one of my rare trips outside to the open-air market near my home, in the dust and heat and shouting chaos. The energy there is palpable, the city a living thing. The colors, the noises—it feels like a heartbeat, like art. Here, it feels like money.

  I hope this isn’t what all of America is like.

  But I don’t want to go back to Egypt, not ever. I’m just tired beyond belief. I didn’t sleep at all on the flights, and I’m loopy with exhaustion.

  I’m glad to be here. Thrilled. America has no culture. There’s no weight of history, barely even centuries to pull on people. You can be whoever and whatever you want, genealogy and history and religion as fleeting and unimportant as the latest trend in style that’ll be gone as quickly as it came.

  America has no roots. Nothing here lasts forever. I’ll fit right in.

  My goose-pimpled arms make me wish that instead of luggage I’d been able to bring my mother’s bag. She always has exactly what anyone might need: a snack or a cardigan or a tampon or antivenin, so on and so forth.

  I turn the corner and the airport opens up, the escalators leading to the bottom level with baggage claim and huge windows dark with night. I go down, looking around, and there he is.

  Sirus’s hair is perfect, shiny black, cut close to his head. He has my same strong, straight nose, but he wears glasses over his dark eyes. No way you’d guess he was actually thirty-six. He looks midtwenties, tops. My heart leaps, happy and excited to see him, to have something familiar in this strange new place. He sees me and grins, waving with his free arm.

  Which is when I notice his other arm around a beautiful black woman with a head of wild corkscrew curls, a sleeveless dress, and a huge, huge, huge pregnant belly.

  Floods, babies are taking over the world.

  A sharp sting of betrayal flares in my stomach, and I can’t hold back my scowl. What is Sirus thinking? So much for his free and independent life. And he didn’t even tell me! Not a single mention of a girlfriend, much less a baby on the way.

  I manage to wipe my scowl away and force a smile by the time I get to the bottom, though I’m sick inside. Nothing here feels like what I thought it would.

  “Baby sister!” Sirus picks me up and twirls me around in a hug even though I’m nearly his height. I laugh in spite of my anger, shocked more than anything by human contact. I honestly can’t remember the last time someone hugged me. I haven’t let my mother hug me in years. It feels strange. It feels nice.

  “Isadora, this is Deena, my wife.” He grins, bursting with pride as he sets me down and looks at her. She smiles—it lights up her whole face—and, much to my shock, wraps her arms around me in an awkward, belly-filled hug. Her head barely hits my shoulders. This hug is not so nice. I don’t know where to put my arms, or what to do, or why this woman I didn’t even know existed is suddenly hugging me.

  “I’m so happy to meet you, Isadora! Sirus has told me so much about you. I’ve always been sad that I couldn’t meet his family, and I’m thrilled that it worked out for you to come stay with us!”

  I smile fakely, glancing at Sirus for support. How much did he tell her?

  He winks. “Deena knows all about how our family is deeply religious and won’t leave Egypt, so it’s better for you to come here before you apply to American universities in a couple of years.”

  I let out a breath. “Yeah. That whole religion thing. Gods are so overrated.”

  Deena laughs, weaving her arm through mine. “Well, I’m thrilled. I’ve never had a sister, but always wanted one. Plus, Sirus tells me you’re an interior decorator.”

  “Designer,” I correct before realizing it makes me sound rude. “I mean, I kind of think of it more as art.” My projects around the house were my salvation these last couple of years. I think that’s what I’d like to do with my life. Take blank spaces and make them beautiful. Create something where nothing was before, where I can control every aspect of it.

  “Exactly! That’s so great. And I’m apologizi
ng, because I’m going to put you to work right away to earn your keep. Our house is in desperate need of room art.” She smiles warmly, and I think I might like her. As soon as I find out what the crap Sirus was thinking, getting married and not telling me about it.

  We work our way through the crowds to the luggage pickup. Deena’s amazed by my flawless, accent-free English. She should hear my Afrikaans; it’s awesome. I find out she is a city attorney and they’ve been married for two years. I kick Sirus covertly in the shins when he says that, as punishment for being a big fat liar and hiding things from me. What is wrong with him?

  “It’s so sad that your parents wouldn’t come to the wedding because they can’t leave Egypt.” Deena shakes her head sympathetically and I nod, assuming Sirus will let me in on whatever elaborate mythology he’s created to explain our family. He should have just said they were dead, since in our father’s case it’s technically true.

  The belts start turning, and looking out for my luggage saves me from any more conversation. The first few suitcases come down the ramp, and my stomach sinks. They are all black. And midsized. And look exactly like mine. I flash back to my last afternoon with my mother, picking out luggage. She told me not to get black because it would look like everyone else’s. I ignored her because she’s never traveled by plane. How did she know? How does she always know?

  After pulling no fewer than four wrong suitcases, I finally find mine. Sirus grabs it and we head outside. It’s dark, and my stomach is unsettled from all of the change and startling revelations. The air is cool, wetter than I’m used to. I can feel it on my skin, pawing at me, and I don’t like it. I look expectantly at the sky, needing to see my stars.

  “It’s cloudy,” I say, my voice small and sad.

  “June gloom,” Deena answers. “San Diego has amazing weather year-round, but June has almost constant cloud cover. Still, it means the beaches aren’t as crowded.”

  I nod, not caring about the beach, and we find Sirus’s tiny Mini. It’s sky blue, old but perfectly maintained. I love it. I’d paint it cherry red with racing stripes. It makes me happy that even though he runs a fleet of limos and taxis, my brother drives this.

  “Sorry about the space,” he says, opening the back to shove my suitcase in.

  “Poor Sirus,” Deena says, a smile pulling at her lips. “He’s finally going to have to give up driving his baby because he’s having a baby.”

  “I still say we could fit.”

  “I’m not dealing with a car seat in a two-door.”

  Sirus sighs heavily, opening the passenger door and flipping the seat forward so I can climb into the back. “Want a car, Isadora?”

  I laugh, nervous, as I buckle my seat belt and try to fold my long legs in such a way that they won’t be slammed up against the driver’s seat. “Umm, I’ve barely even ridden in cars. I don’t exactly know how to drive them.”

  “We can work on that. In the meantime, Deena has a bike she’s not using.”

  “Thanks.” I don’t know how to ride a bike, either, but that has less potential for killing innocent bystanders.

  He starts the car but pauses to take Deena’s hand and pull it to his lips in a surprisingly intimate and affectionate gesture.

  I look outside, uncomfortable. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. I don’t feel free; I feel nervous and edgy and out of place. Sirus wasn’t supposed to have his own family. I was supposed to be his family. Instead I’m just going to be another footnote to someone else’s story.

  I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. But I’m disappointed. Not even Orion is around to care about me here.

  The blank whiteness above sends me into a momentary panic. I’m in another nightmare. No. Sirus’s house. I was so tired when we got here last night, it was all I could do to take my boots off before collapsing into bed.

  Floods, the ceiling is so white. I push back the heavy comforter and am greeted by a seeping chill in the air. Apparently Southern California is not as warm as I thought it would be. I brush my arms, feeling like they should be wet, but they’re just cold. Shivering, I wrap up in a soft blue throw draped on the edge of the bed. My bare legs stretch out about a foot past the bottom of the blanket, but it’ll do for now.

  Sirus and Deena live in an area called Ocean Beach—or Pacific Beach—or Something or Other Beach, which I suspect could be the name of every community here. It’s a mess of homes built into the hills, and theirs is a great gray rambling wood confusion of a house.

  The whole thing is pleasant but a complete nothing designwise, all white and beige, and already my mind is spinning with the potential. I think this will be the beach room. The dark wood floors I’m not touching—they’re perfect—but I want a seaweed-green throw rug, the walls palest yellow, and a light sea-green ceiling.

  The accents will all be glass. I’ll troll the local shops for glass artisans; surely they have that type of shop here. Blown-glass vases, or ideally some sort of abstract art that looks like kelp. Maybe a painting or two in ocean blues and greens. The bedspread I’ll keep white, but with a shock of bright coral-orange pillows.

  I’m totally going to earn my keep. My feet pad along the cold wood floors with an extra spring. None of last night’s melancholy will be allowed—today is mine. Tomorrow is mine. Every day from now until I die? Mine.

  “What do you mean I have a job?” I stare at Sirus in horror.

  He clutches the newspaper in front of him like a shield. When I walked in and saw him sitting at his (awful, awful maple with Queen Anne chairs) table reading the paper, the resemblance to our father was uncanny. Except Sirus has no mummy wrappings. However, the momentary surge of affection I felt for him has entirely disappeared.

  “I thought she told you.” He takes off his glasses and rubs the space between his eyes. “When she asked if you could stay with me, she had some rules.”

  “SHE IS NOT HERE. SHE CANNOT CONTROL MY LIFE.”

  “Isadora. Sit down and hear me out, okay?”

  I slump into a chair across from him, deflating. I shouldn’t yell at him. It’s not his fault our mother can’t understand that not even her divine apron strings can stretch all the way from Egypt to San Diego.

  “Okay, hit me. What does the Queen of Heaven think I should be doing?”

  “Pancakes!” Deena says, sashaying into the dining room. Her hair is even wilder this morning, curls everywhere, and everything about her seems to imitate them—she is all movement and light and energy. If it weren’t for that thing in her belly and the fact that she stole my brother from me, I’d think she was awesome.

  I kick Sirus under the table for good measure.

  “Hope this is okay.” Deena sets a plate down on the table and then sits with an ungraceful oof. “And don’t get used to it. Weekdays I am gone by seven and you are on your own.”

  I’ve never had pancakes before. I wait, watching what Deena does to prepare hers, my stomach growling. This is not the wholesome, basic fare my mother insists on. I spear a golden pancake and plop it onto my plate, then drench it in syrup. I can smell it—pure sugar and artificial flavoring. My mother says if you can’t pronounce all of the ingredients, it shouldn’t go in your body.

  I say, Sugar, yay!

  The paint here is white, again, some more. Cutouts in the wall open to the kitchen. I like those. But I want to curve the top of them so they’re arches, not rectangles. I don’t think severe and modern is the right fit for Deena and Sirus. They need a warm home, a soft home, a home that is beautiful and safe and a bit funky.

  The kitchen has nice appliances, dark granite counters. I want neutral pale-green tiles as backsplashes on the walls between the counters and cupboards, which need to be painted either cherry or white. White, I think, once we get rid of all the rest of the white. We’ll shop for handles and put different ones on each cupboard. Pewter, or dark silver.

  “Do you work a lot?” I ask Deena around a sticky-sweet mouthful. I can feel it coating my throat, clinging there, and it’s ac
tually a bit overwhelming but I soldier on, determined to enjoy eating something Mother wouldn’t approve of.

  Deena nods. “Not as much as I would if I were at a firm, but I keep busy.”

  I have no idea what a city attorney does, but it sounds cool. And very . . . worky. No wonder he kept her secret. My mother is all about industry but utterly and completely opposed to married women in the workforce. She’d never approve of Sirus’s choice if she knew that Deena was employed at anything other than perfect domesticity.

  “Awesome. Speaking of jobs?” I jab my fork toward Sirus. Might as well find out.

  “Oh, right. Mom loaned a bunch of stuff to a new exhibit at a local museum. She set you up with a job there to oversee everything.”

  I snort, choking on a piece of pancake. “Oh, that’s perfect. I finally get away, so she plots to have me spend all day every day staring at pictures of her and Father?”

  Sirus widens his eyes at me, and I look at Deena who, fortunately, is tapping out a message on her phone. Whew. “I mean, staring at pictures they donated? Ha. Like that’s going to happen. I wanted to talk to you about which room I can start on. Maybe this area? I love how open everything is. How do you feel about a slowly shifting palette that will incorporate movement—almost like a tide that carries the eye from the entry to the family room to the dining room? Also, how attached are you to this table? Because I’m thinking bonfire.”

  Sirus shakes his head, black eyes crinkling up with a smile. “Umm, no fires. But I’m serious about the job thing.”

  “And I’m serious that Mother’s crazy. She’s not here, I’m not doing it.”

  “She said you’d say that. And she told me to say—and please remember that I am only passing this along because you are a minor and I don’t have legal custody—that if you don’t do the job, she’s taking everything out of your bank account.”