I yank my dark red hair into a high ponytail, pulling tighter and tighter, until the pain makes my eyes water and the memory disappears.
My footsteps echo through the house as I walk down the stairs. My father is sitting in the living room, in his old armchair, drinking coffee. It’s comforting to see him in a place I recognize, doing something he always used to do. “Hey Dad,” I call softly.
He looks up from the paper he’s reading. Even from across the room I can see his deep green eyes, the same color as my own.
“Oh, Lydia. Hi.” He shakes his head a little, like he’s surprised that I’m talking to him.
“What are you reading?” My voice sounds overly cheery.
He shrugs and stares down at the page in his hands. “An article.”
There’s a pause. I clear my throat. “Where’s Mom?”
“Kitchen.”
I twist my fingers together so hard they start to ache. The father I remember was easy to talk to, funny and kind. So different from this one. “Right. Are you going to eat with us? I’m sure Mom made tons of food. You know how she is. . . .” I laugh awkwardly.
“In a bit.”
“Okay.” I wait, but he doesn’t say anything else. I leave the room.
The kitchen is filled with smoke. My mother stands at the stove wearing a linen pants suit, her sleek blond hair curling around her shoulders.
“Lydia, set the table, please.”
I cough and wave my hand in front of my face. “Are you trying to burn the house down or something?”
My old mother would have laughed, but this new one turns icy-brown eyes on me and raises her eyebrow. I try not to flinch.
“Sorry,” I mumble, and grab the plates out of the cupboard. I carefully set them down on the table.
Mom turns from the stove carrying a steaming pan. She has cut an onion and mushroom omelet into three thick pieces, and slides one of them onto my plate before she stops and gives me a look.
“Lydia.” She sighs. “You did it again.”
“What?”
“The plates.”
I stare down at the china. It takes me a minute to realize what she means—I set the table for four instead of three.
But of course Grandpa’s not here now.
“Sorry.” I pick up one of the plates and set it on the counter.
Mom finishes serving the food. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug as I take my seat at the table.
She drops the pan into the sink. It clatters against the other dishes, so loud that I jump and wonder if she broke something. “You’ve been acting different lately.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, without the warmth I’m used to. She sits down at the table and stares at me. “What’s going on with you?”
I glance at her with surprise; this is the first real question she’s asked me in five weeks. “Nothing.”
She tilts her head to the side. “Something’s different.”
“It’s not. I’m the same.”
“No. You’re not.” She picks up her fork and stabs the omelet on her plate. “You’re . . . more sensitive. Forgetful. Do you feel all right? Is something going on at school?”
“It’s the summer. School has been out for a month, remember?”
“Oh right.” She looks flustered. “What about with Hannah? Or Grant?”
“They’re fine. I’m fine.” I force myself to smile at her. “Everything’s normal, Mom.”
“See, that’s what I mean.”
“What?”
“Since when did you start calling me Mom?”
I frown. “What else would I call you?”
“You’ve been calling me Carol for the past three years. And you’re never usually at home this much, or volunteering to help out at your father’s store. What has gotten into you?”
Lydia 2 calls her mother Carol? I’ve been trying to learn her behavior, but I never expected this life to be so different from the one I left behind. Avoiding Mom’s gaze, I reach up to push my bangs back from my forehead. But I freeze when I see her eyes narrow at the movement. Lydia 2 doesn’t have bangs, and when I came back from the past it was something I had to quickly figure out how to explain.
“Nothing, sorry . . . Carol.” But it feels so strange to say it that I cough and reach for the orange juice Mom put out earlier.
She scrapes her fork against her plate and meets my eyes. “You’ll tell me if something is seriously wrong, right?”
“Um . . .” I am saved from answering when my father enters the room.
He sits down at the table without saying anything and starts to eat. My mother rolls her eyes at him and stands up abruptly. The action makes me smile—it’s something my original mother would have done.
So is caring about what’s going on with my life. Five weeks ago, when I first met this new Mom, I never would have thought she’d ask me how I’m doing. Maybe I underestimated her. Or maybe I’m starting to rub off on her.
It’s a nice thought, that some of the old me is influencing this new life. But it also fills me with a sharp fear. I set my fork down and push my chair back.
“I have to go. I’ll be late meeting Hannah.”
“You’re not done eating yet,” Mom says.
“I’m not hungry. And we’re going to the diner anyway.”
“You’ll be at the store later, though, right?” Dad doesn’t look up from his plate.
“Yeah.”
“There’s some inventory to do. I left it on the desk in the back room.”
“I’ll get it done.” I reach the door but stop and turn to face them. Mom
