I'll Stop the World (68)

“Mom?” I hear myself say under my breath, even though it can’t be her. The woman looks so much like her, though, that for a moment, my lungs forget how to move air in and out of my body. They just hold it, frozen along with the rest of me, at the sight of this woman who has Lissa Warren etched in every curve and angle of her face.

She notices me standing on the sidewalk staring, and tilts her head curiously, hiking the baby up in her arms. “Hello?”

“Hi,” I say, waving sheepishly.

“Can I help you?” Her voice is friendly, but her smile is reserved. Probably wondering if I’m some sort of pervert.

“No, that’s okay. I’m just waiting for my friend to get home from school.”

“Who’s your friend?”

I clear my throat. “Uh, Rose Yin?”

Something odd flickers behind her eyes. “Oh, you must be the pen pal. Justin, right?”

“She told you?”

“Mm-hmm,” she says, adjusting the baby again to unlock the front door. “Please, come inside.”

“That’s okay,” I say, pointing up at my umbrella. “I’m fine out here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s pouring.”

Reluctantly, I follow her inside, feeling incredibly out of place. Rose’s house is warm and soft, with rich wood furniture and framed family photos on every surface. I follow the woman, who has to be Veronica, Rose’s stepmother’s campaign manager, and also my grandmother, into the wood-paneled living room. I sit on a plump sofa covered in a blue floral pattern and accept a can of Tab from Veronica, who plops her daughter—my mom—down on the brown shag carpet in front of me.

“No one is home yet, but Diane should be here any minute,” Veronica says, hanging her coat on a rack by the front door. “She had an errand to run after work, but it shouldn’t take long. So it’s just us until she gets here. Oh, I’m so sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. Veronica Warren,” she says, sticking her hand out to shake. “And this is Millie.” She indicates the baby, who is toddling precariously around the room, arms outstretched to touch everything in her path.

Millie. That’s right. I’d forgotten that her name would be different here, even though Rose already told me. I wonder if Mom’s grandparents changed the nickname on purpose when they took her in, or if they simply never knew what her own parents called her.

“Nice to meet you.” My hands feel numb, and I don’t think it’s from the cold can of soda.

“So,” Veronica says, sitting across from me in a plaid armchair and folding her hands on her crossed knees. “Tell me about yourself.” She stares at me intently with blue eyes just a shade darker than my mom’s.

“Um,” I say, feeling like I’m being interrogated. My hands are clammy; I wipe them on my jeans. “Well, I’m Justin. I’m eighteen.”

“Have you graduated yet?”

“No.”

“Then why aren’t you in school?”

Wow. I am not prepared for this. “I’m homeschooled,” I blurt out in a moment of brilliance. “So my breaks are . . . different.”

“Hmm,” Veronica says, and I can practically see her make a mental note. “And you decided to use your break from school to come visit Rose.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

A tiny laugh escapes involuntarily. Is my entire family allergic to subtlety? I always figured that Mom was a drunk, and I had my neurodivergent brain, and Stan was, well, Stan, but Veronica is not any of those things—I think—yet here she is blasting away with her shotgun full of questions. Maybe it’s genetic. “I just . . . wanted to see her,” I say.

“But you knew we all had the debate this weekend, correct?”

I nod, swallowing. My mind was not meant to race this fast. It already has a cramp. “I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

“But—”

Just then, the front door swings open. Literally anyone could walk in and I’d be happy to see them. Dave. Stan. The cast of Jersey Shore. Anyone who can provide a temporary reprieve from this barrage of questions from this woman who looks and sounds like my mom but is not my mom and is sending me into full-on existential-crisis mode.

But then I see who it is, and suddenly, it’s worse.

“Look who it is, sweetheart!” Veronica coos to the baby, who lets out a squeal of joy. “It’s your daddy!”

“Sorry I’m late, hon,” the rain-splattered man says breathlessly. “I’ll get her out of your hair in just a sec.” His hair is shorter than mine, his shoulders a little broader, his nose a little wider, but this is undoubtedly him. Bill. My grandfather. He’s not a mirror image of me, but more like what a sketch artist would draw if someone described me. Same sharp chin, same pale eyes, same weirdly small ears.

For a second, I forget to breathe. Can they see it? How can they not?

But apparently they don’t, because Bill looks at me like a stranger, sticking out his hand. “Oh, hello, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Bill Warren. I’m the counselor over at the school.”

“Justin,” I croak, my mouth dry as I shake his hand. I take a swig of Tab and immediately choke, and for a few seconds, the only sound in the room is my gross hacking.