From the Stars, to the Stars

From the Stars, to the Stars: Chapter Two

Gracie snuffles up against me, small and warm and dusky damp from hard sleep. She's three, pale and gossamer-gold like our mother. She's also dangerous, this tiny, glimmering sylph of a creature. Her heart, so large and full, is ruled by a defective hourglass no one can see. If it runs out before she has the chance to grow old with us, before that heart can be broken by some thoughtless boy, or a dissipating dream, it might just destroy us all.

My own sometimes jerky rhythm is much less of a threat, just an inconvenience. It's my sister's trouble that makes me heartsick. I'd trade places with her in a single one of my erratic beats, but I don't have that kind of power. I do what I'm capable of, saying nothing when she sneaks into bed with me long after she should have drifted off to sleep in her own room.

I slide out of the blankets as smoothly as possible, taking care not to wake Gracie as I uncurl her tiny fingers from the end of my braid, and head for the bathroom. While I shower, either Mom plucks her from my bed, or Graice wakes up on her own, because by the time I get back, she's gone.

Dressed and starving, I barrel down the staircase, my hand catching the newel post at the end ball-and-socket style, inertia helping me defy the laws of physics long enough for a moment of swirling free-fall until I leap-step through the foyer and into the kitchen

Gracie sits in her booster at the table, studying the strawberry swirls in her oatmeal. Mom, humming something swoopy and old-fashioned, slides bacon next to a pile of scrambled eggs on a plate sitting in front of Dad. He hasn't quite achieved cognitive functions yet, but toils on, scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad for his teaching assistant. It's so painfully domestic, but I'm thankful of how Small Town my family is. Gimme Rockwellian over glamorous any day.

Since Mom isn't paying attention to us just yet I bend to kiss Gracie's cheek, now with oatmeal liberally applied. "Rough time last night, kiddo?" I whisper, in case Mom didn't get Gracie this morning; no reason to worry the rest of the clan for a routine nighttime visit.

Gracie has just shoved a gob of oatmeal into her mouth, but she nods solemnly. "Anything I should know about?" I ask. She knows this is code for "Do I need to tell Mom or Dad?" She's paying very close attention to how she handles her spoon, not thinking of last night. I breathe a tiny sigh of relief when she shakes her head, intent on swallowing.

Reassured by her answer, I about-face toward the counter across the room, where the coffee pot burbles away happily. Dad and I both need our morning I.Q. boosters, without which we'd be absolutely useless at school and work. Especially him, since school and work are the same thing for him; he teaches Statistics over at Baldwin. Convenient, since our little Victorian two-story sits right across the street from campus.

Mom stops humming and shoots me a dirty look as I take a travel mug from the cupboard. I smile at her, loving the stubborn streak running through the core of her everyday gentility. "Mom, I'm sixteen and I haven't grown a centimeter in the last three years. At this point you can't blame coffee for stunting my height," I tease. "Besides, I'm two inches taller than you. Tell her, Dad."

Dad, ever the diplomat, clears his throat and says, "You're both perfectly sized. All my pixies are." With the second statement, he swings his gaze over to Gracie to include her, too.

Mom has opened her mouth, her expression carrying on the argument, but I head her off at the pass, asking for the name of the song she'd hummed all morning. "It's catchy," I add, for good measure.

Her eyes take on a dreamy quality. "It's an old Gershwin number called Someone to Watch Over Me. Your father played the hero, Jimmy Winters, in our senior production, you know. It's what first drew my attention to him."