My Life After Now - By Jessica Verdi Page 0,6

it through the week from hell. Well, that and a glorious weekend free of Elyse St. Life Destroyer.

I slathered two pieces of bread with butter and added three slices of artificial cheese product. The skillet sizzled and hissed, and I stood in front of the stove, hypnotized, as the flame warmed my face and the gooey orange stuff melted over the crusts. My mouth was actually beginning to water when I heard Dad’s voice coming from the living room. That was weird. My dads usually had their date nights on Fridays.

“Lu?” he called to me. “Can you come in here for a minute?”

I flicked the burner off and went into the living room. “What’s up?”

And then I saw her. Problem number three.

Lisa Williams was lounging in the big red armchair, legs crossed, looking like she actually thought she belonged there. She flashed a crooked grin at me. I glanced at my fathers over on the couch. Dad had a strained smile on his face, and Papa looked like his head was about to explode. I knew how he felt.

“What’s she doing here?”

“Aw, that’s no way to treat your dear old mum,” she said.

“You are not my mother,” I snapped, refusing to look at her.

If only that were true.

See, Dad, aka Adam Moore, went through a bit of a “finding himself” phase his last year at Columbia, where he was studying Art History. He had a brief affair with his female best friend, Lisa, and bam, Lisa got pregnant. She was on a student visa from the U.K., planning on becoming a traveling rock photographer, and not too keen on the idea of having a kid. But Dad, his hetero experimental period all but over, knew it might be his only chance to have a biological child without employing a surrogate. So they made a deal—if Lisa carried me for nine months and gave birth to me, Dad would take over from there. They both upheld their ends of the bargain. For three years, while Dad got his art dealing career started, he and I lived with his parents in Brooklyn. Then Dad met Papa, aka Seth Freeman, attorney-at-law, we moved to our five-bedroom house in Eleanor Falls, Seth legally adopted me, and our family was complete.

I never wondered “where I came from” like most adopted or single-parent kids. My dads were always so forthcoming with information about Lisa that I rarely had any questions. One of my earliest memories was of a much-smaller me sitting on Dad’s lap, looking through pictures of the beautiful woman with hair so red and long that it looked aflame, and realizing for the first time that my auburn hair was an exact blend of Lisa’s red and Dad’s brown locks.

But being fully informed about my mother’s identity didn’t prevent me from missing her. Every year, we sent Lisa holiday cards and my school photos. I loved going to the post office and telling them we were sending the letter overseas. It made me feel important, special. I always hoped the mail lady would bring me my very own letter from England, stamped with the Queen’s face, but that never happened. The first time I heard anything from Lisa was when I was eight years old and she showed up, unannounced, on our doorstep.

At first I didn’t believe that she was the same woman from the photos. She was incredibly thin, her hair now a dull orange, her face hollow. She said she’d been back in New York for about a year, and she needed money. She said she had nowhere else to go. She stayed with us for two days. She slept in our guest room, ate our food, used our shower. She didn’t hug me or ask about my best subject in school. Her blue eyes darted around nervously, never resting on anything, even me—especially me—for longer than a second. And then she left, with cash in her purse and a promise to stay in touch. We didn’t hear from her again for five years.

The second time she turned up, she again materialized at our house with no warning. But this time she seemed a lot more put-together—she was wearing makeup and looked a lot healthier. She didn’t ask for money—she said she just wanted to get to know me. This time, my dads deferred to me—did I want Lisa to stay with us again? This was my chance—I was thirteen and growing breasts and had recently gotten my period, and the idea