The Chaos of Stars

I look down the length of the room and then close my eyes. An image of my father’s hall pops unbidden into my mind: the carved stone, the patterns, the murals, Ammit in her eternal watch, his low throne at the end. The weight of age and the gravity of death.

No.

The Nile, then? A green-blue floor, the walls yellow and lined with rushes. A breeze, the ripe-but-comforting scent of things wet too long. Still not quite right. Not enough sun in the room. Maybe if we could install heat lamps to leave the air dry and baking, but somehow I doubt that’ll fly.

Behind the darkness of my eyelids, lights trace lazy patterns as always, and I’m reminded of my stars. I cringe back from the idea because it would bring too much of my home here. But no. I’m over that. I will reclaim that idea. I’m going to remake my past so it can’t hurt me anymore. Just like the nursery I’ll do for Deena. I can remove the pain from these things instead of carrying it with me forever.

“Got it!” I open my eyes, the plans for the room spinning out in front of my vision, already replacing this sad space. “Stars.”

“Stars?” Tyler stands up straight, frowning.

“Stars. So much of ancient Egypt was focused on life outside of this one—our dreams, our souls, our deaths, the afterlife. They knew more about astronomy than any other culture at the time, always looking forward and backward and outward. So we paint the room pure black, and—no, we don’t even have to do that.”

I wander up and down, looking for outlets, studying the ceiling. “Here’s what we’ll need: huge sheets of plywood. It’ll bring the walls in a few inches on either side, but we can afford to lose the space. And lowering the ceiling a bit will help with the effect. The windows need to be blocked entirely. We paint the plywood all black and drill holes for LED lights. I can map out the star charts. My mother’s pieces will be staggered throughout, along the walls and in the middle, lit from beneath and by their own pedestals, so that they stand out in the middle of eternity.”

Michelle looks at the room with narrowed eyes. “It sounds complicated. And expensive.”

“It’ll only be the cost of materials, and we can do them cheap.”

“What about the time? We don’t have much. I’ll have to get it approved before you can start, and it might take a week or two for clearance.”

“I can do it. I know I can do it.” I bite my lip, hoping she’ll agree. Now that I’ve decided what the room should be, doing anything else will be a disappointment.

Finally, she nods. “Okay. Prove what you can do. And if you do a good job, I might be able to let you redecorate some of our older exhibits that you seem to think need updates.”

“Thank you!” I say, already racing with adrenaline and ready to work. I will own this room. I will own my past. I will own my future.

“Isadora!”

“Mother!” I sit straight up in bed, heart racing. This isn’t the tomb, or my bed, or my home.

Deena stands in my doorway, hand on her nearly nonexistent hip. I swear, that baby is taking over her entire small frame. How she doesn’t split open down the middle is a mystery to me. “Your friend’s here.”

“My friend?” I run my fingers through my hair, which is sticking out at crazy angles all over my head. “Tyler?”

“The boy?” She leans into the room conspiratorially. “The incredibly, ridiculously hot boy?”

I slap my forehead and flop back down. “What time is it?”

“Eleven.”

“Floods, who gets up before noon on a day when they don’t have anything going on?” I couldn’t sleep in the first few days, my well-trained internal alarm jolting me awake immediately. So I’ve started staying up as late as physically possible to force my body into needing the extra sleep in the morning. Who knew being lazy was such hard work?

“He’s already in the room priming. He’s been here for over an hour, told me not to wake you. I figured it had been long enough.”

With a growl I throw back the covers and stomp down the hall to the nursery.

Ry’s in a light-blue T-shirt and worn-out jeans. Three-quarters of the room is already primed, and music plays softly from an iPod dock in the corner. When I demanded that Ry pay me back for advising him on his travesty of a bedroom, I hadn’t expected him to take me up on it willingly—or quickly.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, squinting against the brilliant light streaming in through the blank, undressed window.

“Hmm?” He looks over, and his face breaks into a smile—chaos, how does he do that? It’s like his whole body glows. It scatters my waking grouchiness, and I can feel a glow warming me, too. “Wasn’t I supposed to help?”

“Well, yeah, but I thought I’d have to drag you over here or something.”

He shrugs and goes back to the wall. “Nah, it’s kind of fun. Sorry for just showing up, but I didn’t have anything else to do this morning.”

“No writing? Your muse isn’t speaking to you?”