I walk up the stairs and stand on the threshold of my room, staring at the destruction, and I can’t help but shiver, putting my hand on the back of my neck. I pick up the photo in its frame. The crack in the glass runs right between my mother and me.
Chapter 6
In the history of mythology in ancient Egypt, Isis is not only the mother of Horus, she’s also occasionally his wife. While deeply disturbing to me, this has less to do with actual relationships and more to do with the balance of power and worship. As Hathor fell out of favor, my mother gladly stepped in and usurped her followers, thereby taking her roles, her domains, and even her husband.
Eventually the gods settled into their most commonly worshipped forms—in this case, Isis as mother and not wife, and Hathor as very annoyed wife, still angry over the loss of her worshippers and favorite cow-horned headdress.
Isis has never apologized. More followers meant more worship, more tongues whispering her name, more hearts turned toward her in times of crisis. To a member of a constantly shifting pantheon of gods desperate for relevance, this was worth occasionally stepping in as the ceremonial wife of her favorite son.
Worship is everything.
But seriously, gross.
TUESDAY AFTER FRIDAY’S BREAK-IN IS THE FIRST time I’ve been home alone since then. I wait on the curb in front of Sirus’s house. An unfamiliar car pulls up wi
th an older woman in the driver’s seat. Tyler leans over and waves at me from the passenger seat, so I climb into the back.
“Thank you so much for the ride,” I say. “Sirus is stuck at the airport with a delayed flight. You saved me.” I’ve actually been out here waiting for an hour. The back door is replaced and a security system installed, but it still feels creepy in there alone.
“No problem! You can thank my mother, Julie. Or as I like to call her while my clunker’s in the shop, my personal chauffeur.”
Julie’s just a bit smaller than Tyler, and I realize why all Tyler’s nice clothes look like they were made to fit someone else: they actually were. Her voice sounds almost the same as her daughter’s. “If you keep referring to me as your chauffeur, I’m going to start charging you.”
“Volunteering does make me the big bucks. It’s about time I started helping out around here. Do you prefer imaginary checks, or imaginary credit cards?”
“I take nonimaginary dish washing.”
“Oh, sorry. I’m afraid my dish-washing account got closed for overdrafting.”
They laugh, teasing each other back and forth, and it feels so easy and comfortable. Which for some reason makes me uncomfortable.
“So, Isadora. Tyler tells me you’re from Egypt?”
“Born and raised.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Just the desert. And the quiet. There are a lot of people here.”
“That’s the downside to San Diego. Once you live here, you never want to live anywhere else. Unfortunately everyone else already lives here.” She smiles at me in the rearview mirror. “Would you like to come for dinner sometime?”
“I’d love to.” I want to know more about Tyler, see what made her as awesome as she is. She’s the best part about working at the museum, and I greedily want to have her in more parts of my life here.
Tyler holds back a closed fist and it only takes me a few seconds to remember I’m supposed to bump it with my own. “Sweet,” she says. “This means we’ll actually have to make dinner for once, though.”
“We’ll do something Middle Eastern to make you feel at home,” Tyler’s mom says. I smile, but what they have feels nothing like my home. And it makes me sad.
When she drops us off, Tyler and I have to practically shove our way into the lobby. It’s the third Tuesday of the month, so the museum is free to San Diego residents. Michelle had mentioned this before, but I had no idea just how seriously San Diegans take Free Museum Day. It’s packed. Tyler and I are working the front desks together, checking IDs. I’m grateful I’m not upstairs—at least I don’t have to worry about watching this many people in the exhibit, or, heaven forbid, the Children’s Discovery Room.
I haven’t slept well since the break-in. I can’t get the smell out of my room, and it’s giving me constant headaches. This press of people isn’t helping the pain.
My headache reminds me of last night’s new email from my mother, whom I always associate with pain in my temples. She informed me there is a fifty-dollar-a-day withdrawal limit on my debit card. I hadn’t even taken any money out yet. I’d only started plotting to do it when I had somewhere to go, somewhere she couldn’t find me.
How did she know? How does she always know?
“Are you okay?” Tyler shouts from the other side of the lobby.
I wave a couple through after they show me their driver’s licenses. “I’m peachy,” I say over the crowd. “Why?”