“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.