The Chaos of Stars
Page 30
Really, though, I can’t blame them for being paranoid about security. The poor guard is still in intensive care in the hospital; he’s on several organ-donor lists. They have no idea what happened to him, which makes it all way creepier. And I’m grateful that Michelle was too nervous to give my mother specifics on the attempted robbery, otherwise I’m pretty sure I’d be on the next flight back to Cairo. It had nothing to do with me, anyway.
Besides, it’s hard to feel threatened here in the daytime, the cheerful, bright warmth pushing out the memory of June gloom and everything else dark or dreary.
The nights are another matter. But sunshine! I will focus on that.
The sunshine I’m focusing on barely makes it into the room Michelle opens. Even I am at a loss as to how they thought this would ever work. It’s not really a room so much as a massive hallway. It’s got tremendously high ceilings, 3.7 meters I’d guess, but it’s only about 2.5 meters wide, stretching two-thirds the entire length of the building.
Half of a wall has the remnants of some ill-begotten mural celebrating Central American indigenous cultures, and the rest of the walls are all splotchy white. A tiny row of windows lined up near the ceiling on the right side lets in a dusty trickle of natural light.
Her rage gone as if it never existed, Michelle studies the room as though her efficient, business-oriented gaze could whip it into shape by sheer force of will. “I still think we should disassemble one of the other exhibits and store it in here. Use a main room.”
“I am not disassembling that gigantic tree of evolution,” Tyler says, setting down a broom and leaning against the wall.
Michelle nods. “You’re probably right. We should have all the other exhibits open to avoid bottlenecking this one.” She gestures to a wall. “We can continue the color scheme from the Egypt wing—greens and purples and maybe a mural, then—”
“For the love of these idiot gods, anything but that.”
Michelle and Tyler both look at me, shocked. I shrug apologetically. “Didn’t mean to say that out loud. No offense, but the Egypt room needs an update. Let’s think of something new.”
Raising an eyebrow, Michelle smiles. “So, what should we do?”
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?”
Besides, it’s hard to feel threatened here in the daytime, the cheerful, bright warmth pushing out the memory of June gloom and everything else dark or dreary.
The nights are another matter. But sunshine! I will focus on that.
The sunshine I’m focusing on barely makes it into the room Michelle opens. Even I am at a loss as to how they thought this would ever work. It’s not really a room so much as a massive hallway. It’s got tremendously high ceilings, 3.7 meters I’d guess, but it’s only about 2.5 meters wide, stretching two-thirds the entire length of the building.
Half of a wall has the remnants of some ill-begotten mural celebrating Central American indigenous cultures, and the rest of the walls are all splotchy white. A tiny row of windows lined up near the ceiling on the right side lets in a dusty trickle of natural light.
Her rage gone as if it never existed, Michelle studies the room as though her efficient, business-oriented gaze could whip it into shape by sheer force of will. “I still think we should disassemble one of the other exhibits and store it in here. Use a main room.”
“I am not disassembling that gigantic tree of evolution,” Tyler says, setting down a broom and leaning against the wall.
Michelle nods. “You’re probably right. We should have all the other exhibits open to avoid bottlenecking this one.” She gestures to a wall. “We can continue the color scheme from the Egypt wing—greens and purples and maybe a mural, then—”
“For the love of these idiot gods, anything but that.”
Michelle and Tyler both look at me, shocked. I shrug apologetically. “Didn’t mean to say that out loud. No offense, but the Egypt room needs an update. Let’s think of something new.”
Raising an eyebrow, Michelle smiles. “So, what should we do?”
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?”
