23. Joseph
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
JOSEPH
I stare at a blue ceiling from a bed that's way too small for me.
Mom painted it blue when I was twelve because she thought it was my favorite color. It wasn't. Green was. But she'd already bought the paint and looked so happy about it that I said blue was perfect. I've been lying to protect people's feelings since I was twelve years old.
My feet hang off the end. The mattress sags, the pillow is flat, and the sheets don't smell like Millie, and I've been awake for hours.
I pick up my phone. Nothing new. Just those two words. I'm home.
Two words. That's all I get. And I deserve exactly that.
I know I said I'd give her time. But patience has never been one of my strengths.
Especially not now. I keep wondering if she's eaten.
If she's okay. If the baby is keeping her up.
If she's lying on her side or her back because the doctor said side is better this far along.
Hell, I'm even worried about Tofu. Did she feed Tofu? Tofu gets dramatic when dinner is late.
I roll onto my back. Then my side. Then my back again. The mattress is too soft in the middle, and my hip hits the springs every time I shift. I want to text her. I want to call. I want to drive across the city and knock on the door and stand there until she lets me in.
I check my phone again. Two forty-seven a.m. Sleep isn't happening.
I go down to the kitchen, get a glass of water, and lean against the counter, staring at nothing. My brain won't shut off. It keeps bouncing between Millie and Vivienne, and the look on both their faces, and I can't land on either one without the other pulling me back.
A sound behind me. I turn. Dad is in the doorway in his robe and slippers. He looks at me, not surprised to find his son standing in his kitchen in the middle of the night. He gets a glass of water for himself and sits at the table.
That's Dad. He's never rushed into a conversation in his life. He showed up when I was six, and he's been showing up the same way ever since, sitting down without a word and letting the room do the talking until I'm ready.
The clock ticks. We sit.
"Any word from Millie?" he asks.
I shake my head. "I don't want to rush her."
He nods.
Another stretch of silence. Then he sets his glass down.
"You know, when I first met your mother, I had no idea she had a kid." He looks at me. "She told me after our third date. Casually, like she was mentioning the weather. 'Oh, by the way, I have a six-year-old son.' I almost choked on my drink."
I look at him. He doesn't talk about this often.
"At first, I didn't think much about it.
We were just dating. I was fine with it.
" He turns the glass slowly between his hands, watching the water move.
"But when things got serious, your mother told me she was a date-to-marry kind of woman.
And I was young, and in love and stupid, so I said yes before I even thought about what that meant. "
He lets out a small laugh at his younger self. "Then she said I'd have to meet you. And I got nervous. I was twenty-six. I had no idea how to be a father. That felt like the biggest responsibility in the world."
His mouth tugs up at one corner, warmer in the eyes than the mouth.
"But then I met you. And you weren't like any kid I'd ever been around.
You were quick. Smart. Witty. You made me laugh even though you were clearly testing me the whole time.
Sizing me up. Checking if I was good enough for your mom.
" He shakes his head. "Six years old and already protecting her.
I thought I wouldn't mind having a kid like this. "
I huff. "I would have run away if I met younger me."
He chuckles. "You definitely had spirit. You asked me if I could fix a bike chain. I said yes. You said prove it. So I did, right there in the driveway, while your mother watched from the kitchen window, laughing at both of us."
I smile. I don't remember that, but it sounds like me.
He sets the glass down and folds his hands on the table. When he looks at me again, his voice has changed, quieter and weighted, the voice he saves for the things he doesn't say twice.
"You've always looked out for people, Jo. Your mom. Then your sister. Even me, in your own way. I've always respected that about you." He meets my eyes. "But it's time you look out for yourself, too."
I look up at him. My chest tightens. Dad has always shown love by fixing things, by being in the room. This is new.
"You don't have to sacrifice your life to take care of her, Joseph."
I open my mouth. He holds up a hand.
"I'm not saying abandon your sister. But you've been putting yourself last since you were a kid.
You dropped everything when she was diagnosed.
You came home every weekend from med school.
You sat in hospitals. You held her hand through things no twenty-year-old should have to hold anyone's hand through.
" He waits, letting all of it sit there with us. Then, quieter: "And you never stopped."
"Someone had to, Dad."
"Your mother and I are here. We've always been here." His thumb taps once against the back of his other hand. "You didn't have to be her only lifeline. You chose to be."
"Because when she got hurt, she called me.
" I stare at my water. "And when I got there, she looked at me and said I was the only person she trusted.
The only one." My thumb works the rim of the glass slowly.
"And I just thought, okay. This is my job now.
I'm her older brother, and this is what I do. I step up. I show up. Every time."
Dad waits.
"And I can't stop, Dad. I don't know how to stop." My voice has gone thin. "Every time it rings, every time her voice changes on a call, I'm back in that car driving to her. I'm scared that if I don't, something will happen to her."
Dad doesn't answer right away. His hands stay folded. His eyes don't leave my face.
"I know. And I'm telling you that you don't have to carry this alone. We can help too. I know you want to be there for your sister, but I know you want to be there for Millie. She's your family, too."
I rub my face. My eyes burn.
"I do. I do want to be with her."
"Then you tell her. Talk to her and work things out." He breathes out, slow, settling something inside himself. "But first, talk to your sister. She needs to hear from you. Not as her protector. As her brother. She needs to know that you loving someone else isn't a betrayal."
"What if she doesn't see it that way?"
"Then you help her see it. Gently. Honestly." He stands and puts his hand on my shoulder. "And Joseph. When you're done, go to Millie. Don't wait. Don't give her more time to build a wall you can't get through."
He squeezes my shoulder and goes back to bed.
I sit there a while longer. The clock ticks. The house settles. I dump the water and go back to my room, thinking about what I'll say to Vivienne.
Vivienne's door is cracked open. I knock softly. She's awake, sitting on the bed with her knees pulled up, still in last night's clothes. Her hair is tangled, eyes swollen. She looks like she hasn't slept either.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey." The word barely clears her throat, dry from a night of crying.
"Can I come in?"
She nods.
I sit on the edge of her bed. The room hasn't changed since high school—posters still on the walls, violin stand in the corner, sheet music fanned across the desk like she just set it down. Mom never touched any of it.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like garbage." She pulls at a thread on the blanket. "I said terrible things that night."
"I know."
"I called her nobody. In front of Mom and Dad." She covers her face. "Who says that? What kind of friend says something like that?"
"Someone who was scared and in the middle of an episode. That's not who you are, Viv."
"It came out of my mouth though. Doesn't matter if it was an episode. It was still me."
She drops her hands and looks at the window.
"Is she okay?"
"She's home."
"Does she hate me?"
"No."
"She should."
I let that sit. Then I take a breath.
"I need to tell you something. About Millie."
She looks at me.
"She's not just someone I got pregnant. She's..." I search for the right words, and they all sound wrong, so I just say them. "She changed something in me." I sit forward, elbows on my knees, and the saying-it-out-loud makes the next breath come easier than the ones before it.
"Before her, I came home to nothing. I filled every room with noise because silence scared me. And then she moved in, and the quiet got better." I catch myself almost smiling at the memory. "She made me feel like I could stop performing. Stop being on all the time and just exist."
Vivienne watches me, still pulling at the thread.
"She makes me laugh. She makes me want to be better. And I'm falling for her in a way I didn't think I could. I've spent my whole life being everyone's anchor, Meimei. She's the first person who makes me feel like I don't have to hold the whole ocean."
Vivienne remains very still.
I lean forward and take her hands in mine, the way I did when she was sixteen and terrified and I was too young to be the one holding her together.
"You'll always be my sister. Always my family.
Nothing changes that." I make sure she's looking at me.
"But I'm building my own family now, too.
A baby. A partner. A life. And I need you to know that loving her doesn't mean I love you less. "
For half a second, I think she's going to reach back. I think the words did what I needed them to do. Then the softness in her face hardens into something I recognize, and I know I’ve lost her before she even opens her mouth.
"So you're choosing her."
"That's not what I'm saying."
"It's exactly what you're saying." Her voice is climbing again. "You're sitting on my bed in my room, telling me you found someone better to take care of. That's what this is."
"No. I'm telling you I love you, and I also love her. That's not a choice. That's just my life."
"You're here because you feel sorry for me. That's the only reason you stayed right? Not because you wanted to. Because you felt obligated. Because poor Vivienne is having another episode and someone needs to babysit."
"That's not true."
"Then why are you already planning to leave? You just got here, and you're already thinking about going to her. I can see it on your face."
She's right. She can see it. She's always been able to read me the same way I read her.
"I need to talk to her, Meimei. I need to explain what happened. She deserves that."
"And I deserve to not be left behind!" She's louder now. Her hands are shaking. "Everyone leaves. You're the only one who doesn't, and now you're telling me you have somewhere better to be."
I stay where I am, hands flat on my knees.
"I'm not leaving you. But I have a son coming. I need to be there for him, too. For Millie. They need me."
The second it leaves my mouth, I know it's the wrong thing to say. Her face crumbles and twists at the same time.
"They need you. Right. Because what I need doesn't matter anymore."
"That's not what I—"
"Go then. Go to them. Go be a father since that's more important."
"Vivienne."
"GO!"
I close my eyes. Take a breath.
"I'm going to give you some space right now. I'll be in the kitchen. When you're ready to talk, I'm here."
She turns toward the wall and pulls the blanket over her shoulders, not saying another word.
I walk out and close the door gently. In the hallway, I press my back against the wall and breathe.
I hear her crying through the door. Muffled. I just made everything worse.
But Dad's words are in my head. You don't have to be her only lifeline. And I think about Millie. Alone. Waiting. Not knowing if I'm coming back or what I'm going to say when I do. Every hour I'm here is another hour she's in that apartment with nothing but her own thoughts and Tofu.
In the kitchen, Mom is making tea. She looks at me when I come in.
"How did it go?"
"She thinks I'm choosing Millie over her."
Mom is quiet for a second. "Oh, honey. I know that's not what you meant."
She pours me tea. I sit.
The hours crawl. I give Vivienne space. I sit in my room, trying to do some work on my phone. I've already missed a few days. Connor is asking if I'm alright. I told him it's a personal emergency.
I check on Vivienne around noon. I crack the door open. She's lying on her side, facing the wall. Her breathing is slow and even. Sleeping. Or pretending to. Her tray of food on her bedside table, untouched. I pull the door shut carefully.
I wait another hour. I make lunch. I eat half of it. Mom asks if I want more, and I say no. Dad asks if I'm okay, and I say yeah. Nobody in this house is okay, and we're all pretending, which is basically our family's entire operating system.
Around three, I tell Mom I want to go to Millie. She nods.
"That's a good idea. Go. Your father and I are here. She'll be fine."
"I know. I just want to say goodbye to her first."
I walk down the hall and knock on her door softly.
No answer.
I knock again.
Nothing.
I open the door.
The bed is empty. Blanket thrown back. Window closed. Her coat is gone from the hook behind the door.
Her phone is on the nightstand. She left it there on purpose—she knows I'd call, knows I'd track her down.
"Mom!"
She comes down the hall. One look at the empty room and her face goes white.
"Her coat's gone. Phone's on the nightstand."
Dad appears behind Mom. He looks in the room. His face is calm, but his jaw is working. "Where would she go?"
I'm already moving. Down the hall. Through the kitchen. My keys are on the counter where I left them, and I grab them so hard they bite into my palm.
There's only one place. One person. The conversation I had with her this morning, telling her about Millie, telling her I'm building my own family. It didn't calm her down. It gave her a target.
"Call me if she comes back," I say to Mom. "I think she went to my place."
"What? Joseph—!"
But I'm already gone. I don't have time.
Vivienne has never hurt anyone on purpose. But it's happened before. Twice. Both times during episodes, both times she broke down crying after. Her body moved before her brain could catch up. Episodes don't care about purpose. They care about impulse.
And Millie can't scream for help.